


Paper Airplanes

by RemainNameless



Series: Airplanes!verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Human, Casual Sex, Drunk Sex, Everyone Is Alive, Loss of Virginity, Marijuana, Multi, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Drinking, obvious moral issues y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RemainNameless/pseuds/RemainNameless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The road to unfortunate, accidental, and possibly career-destroying relationships is littered with good intentions, snark, bad timing, and not a few paper airplanes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part Un

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the fic I was never going to write but hey, that happens sometimes, I guess.  
> I really have no excuses for this I suppose.

Derek fucking hates teenagers. 

He didn’t like them when he _was_ one, and he doesn’t like them any better now. Which is why it’s the result of somewhat poor decision-making that he’s a high school teacher. He knows that. But he’s always had this weird desire to be that teacher that he needed when _he_ was in high school, and he made the mistake of getting a degree in something he’s interested in instead of one that’ll get him a _job_. So here he is, a master’s degree later: just on the bad side of thirty and standing in front of a bunch of juniors who don’t give a shit about actually _learning_ anything. 

First days always suck. First weeks suck more. He has over a hundred names and faces to learn and pair together, which is somewhat difficult when there’s four Johns, three Williams, five Lauras (not counting his sister), and three Rachels on his roster. And then _this_. This fucking Polish keyboard smash. It’s like a fucking joke. _No one_ would name their kid that.

“I’m not even going to _try_ to pronounce this one,” he says, and he’s about to call out the surname when he’s interrupted.

“Yeah, that’ll be me,” a twitchy-looking kid says from the back of the room, next to his desk. “Just call me Stiles.”

Derek writes that in next to _Stilinski_ , not really liking the way the kid talks to him. “Get your feet off the desk,” he says before moving down to the next name. The kid snorts and that’s when Derek _knows_ that he’s going to have trouble with this one. _Joy_. 

 

He swears they get worse every year. It would be easy to call it stupidity, but it’s not, it’s worse. Because these kids are _smart_. Most of them are in AP for a reason (though there are a few exceptions) but the thing is, they don’t actually give a shit beyond their grades. They don’t care about learning, say, why the Articles of Confederation failed to be a governing solution unless it’s going to be on the fucking test. And they’re horrible grade grubbers. Fucking _Jackson Whittemore_. That kid comes up to him after every quiz or test or goddamn _worksheet_ , trying to argue for his grade. And he’ll only miss _one_ , that’s the thing. He’s arguing over between two and eight points in a grading category that’ll only count for twenty percent of his nine weeks’ grade, ten percent for the semester. It’s _stupid_. 

And there _are_ real stupid ones, of course, like Greenberg, who shouldn’t be in the class at all, but his parents probably put him up to it once they heard about open enrollment for the AP classes. So he’ll do extra credit out the wazoo just to keep his grade up enough to stay in the class, but he’s not going to be making above a three on the AP test anyway. It just makes Derek sad. The kid’s a victim of the system.

And then there’s the smart kids who don’t complain, but they try to contradict him when he’s teaching. Lydia Martin’s bad about it, but she’s so smart it makes his head spin. History’s not her thing, from what he hears in the teacher’s lounge, but she’s in the AP class for the bump to her GPA, the extra ten points that’ll put her above a 4.0. If Derek misspeaks, she’ll correct him, and if there’s a test question with answers that are “too ambiguous to throw out” she’ll badger him about it until he gives everyone the two or three points for the question. She’s almost always right, which he hates.

And then there’s fucking _Stiles_. Who Derek wants to smack about a hundred and twenty percent of the time. Because he’s smart, yeah, and he likes the general subject, sure, but he doesn’t actually do any of the reading because only cares about weird, very particular things that aren’t on his syllabus and asks weird questions that are only tangentially related to what he’s talking about, and that’s _forgiving_. But he still manages to do pretty well because _apparently_ , he _listens_ , or something, which is more than Derek can say for ninety percent of his students. 

He actually asks Laura about Stiles one day because she teaches the sophomore AP class, but he was apparently in Paul’s class last year, and Paul retired. She _does_ say that Paul told her Stiles wrote an essay on the history of male circumcision instead of the Silk Road. Derek’s not in the least surprised by that. 

Also, he’s fucking annoying. He asks weird, derailing questions and he’s sarcastic as shit and has approximately _zero_ respect for authority. Derek’s maybe a little snarkier to him than most, but he deserves it. And hey, he can give it as well as he can take it. 

* * *

Stiles would probably like his junior year if it weren’t for basically everything about it. In theory, he’s seventeen and this should be the prime of his life, but between everyone telling him he needs to pad his resume with all sorts of shit and all of his classes suddenly being AP and stupidly formulaic, which is somehow _worse_ than the standardized test shit they’ve been doing since forever, he’s frustrated and bored basically all the time. 

Scott is handling it better than he is, since he actually has some sort of _work ethic_ , but that might not last. He’s been making eyes at the principal’s daughter, who just transferred from the private school. She’s nice and Stiles makes an effort to talk to her, but Scott literally spends all of Hale’s class staring at her. It’s getting to the point where he can tell that Hale wants to make some snide comment about it because he gets this _look_ , like he’s just _done,_ when he sees Scott staring across the room instead of in the vague direction of the white board. He’s holding back, but who knows how long that’ll last, and Stiles is thinking he’ll ask him not to mention it because his buddy’s love life doesn’t need that. Besides, Hale will listen to him. 

“I wish we were in classes together,” Erica says over lunch. It’s a nice day, they’re sitting outside, and Scott is watching Allison eat with Lydia, Jackson, and Danny. 

“Yeah. It’s too bad. Next year, huh?” Stiles returns, picking at his sandwich. 

Erica sighs. “I just don’t get it. We have _all_ of the same teachers, and yet, no luck.” She frowns. “I’m going to need your notes for Hale’s class today. I totally zoned out. I would apologize, but I have no shame.”

Stiles laughs. “Notes? What are these notes you speak of?” He grins, shrugs, says, “I’ll give you the rundown later. But it would help if you didn’t stare at his ass.”

“Have you _seen_ it? Don’t ask impossible things of me, Stiles. By the way, he found out that we’re friends and he told me I can do better.” 

Stiles scoffs. “He’s just in denial that I’m his favorite. In a very backwards way that involves stealing my Doritos and using me as an example to talk about all the horrible ways people died. I swear to God, when we get to the Oregon Trail, if he says I died of dysentery, I’m going to have to retaliate.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You know how he’s like the human version of the Grumpy Cat?” Erica nods because they’ve discussed this before. At length. “Well, I told him that last week and he _hates_ it, so I’ll change his desktop background or something. Something bigger. I’ve been plotting.” Stiles grins because he’s thinking about it now, and the glare Hale gave him when he showed him the Grumpy Cat was the _exact_ same facial expression as the picture, and what he’s got planned will be a great distraction. 

“How is she _so_ pretty?” Scott asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they sat down.

“ _Magnets_ ,” Stiles says with jazz hands, but he realizes that the Scott-Allison situation is getting out of hand. “I’ve gotta go. Have to turn something in. See you after school.” He grabs his trash and his books and heads off in the direction of the History wing. 

But Hale isn’t in his room. It’s open, like it always is during lunch, and usually he’s here, but he might have gotten lunch or something. Or he’s in another room. Which is likely since his sister, the frighteningly attractive Ms. Hale, and his uncle, the senior year AP teacher, is across the hall. Derek’s probably there, actually. Peter comes into Stiles’ class with him sometimes, since that’s his conference period, and it seems like one of those things where he drives Derek crazy but they hang out anyway. That, and Ms. Hale’s room was empty and dark when Stiles passed by. 

“ _Well_ , look who’s here,” Peter says when Stiles pokes his head in. Stiles sort of had him starting his freshman year because he does one of the UIL teams, the one Lydia was on, and Stiles had been mad in love with her at the time, so he’d tried to do all of her extracurriculars. Not a good decision as it turned out, but he knows Peter well enough for someone who’s never been in any of his classes. 

“Jesus, go away,” Hale says, rolling his eyes. But it’s sort of an impotent thing, no real force behind it. 

“Why would I ever do that when I can piss you off instead?” Stiles asks.

“ _Language_.” Stiles rolls his eyes because he _knows_ that Hale doesn’t actually care.

Peter shakes his head, says “Are you going to sign up for UIL again and lead the team to victory? Because I’ve got a bunch of shitheads this year.” It’s sarcasm, some of it, because Stiles was too busy mooning over Lydia to actually study, but she quit the team, too, and Peter’s told him he’s smart enough if he’ll pull his head out of his ass.

“Not on your life,” Stiles says cheerfully. “I’ve already got too much on my plate. I was actually looking for sourpuss over here.”

“I’m not giving you extra credit,” Hale says quickly. “I don’t care how much you ask.”

Stiles gives him a look. “When would _I_ ever ask for extra credit? _Please_. You know me better than that. But I gotta ask you for help about the Scott-and-Allison situation.”

“I’m not a teen magazine, Stiles.”

“I _know_ that,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “But I wanted to ask you not to say anything about it because I _know_ you want to. He’s my bro, and it’s not like she’s out of his league, but _he_ thinks she is, and if you say anything, he might die. He has embarrassment-induced asthma and his throat swells up. It’s not pretty. So just…be cool. Don’t be a jerk.”

“I’m not a _jerk_ ,” Hale says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stiles gives him a disbelieving look. “You’re a little bit of a jerk. But it’s okay, I know it’s just your way of making friends.”

Peter laughs. “He’s got you _down_ ,” he says, giving Stiles a wink. He’s a winker. It’s only a little weird. Okay, a lot, but Peter’s someone he knows how to deal with, so it’s fine. 

“Don’t be on his side,” Hale tells him, then looks at Stiles. “Your request has been noted and ignored. Thanks for your input. Now run along and go hang around with your little friends.”

That’s not promising, but the next day, Hale tells everyone they’re doing a partner quiz and that he’s choosing the partners. Scott and Allison get paired up, and when Stiles grins, Hale doesn’t meet his look. He’s got a heart after all, Stiles knows, it’s just buried deep, deep down. There’s a mushy marshmallow center hiding in there somewhere.

Scott leaves class with Allison’s number, and that’s when Stiles decides that he’s giving up the facade of calling Hale by his last name. They’re _bros_ now. Co-wingmen. Even if Derek will never admit to it. 

* * *

Derek leans back in his chair enough to put his feet up on his desk. It’s a nice chair. He _fought_ for his chair — it’s one of the nice ones, with cushy padding and armrests and it doesn’t make any noises when he rolls across the floor. 

“Don’t you have, like, grading to do?” Stiles asks. Because he’s interrupting Derek’s lunchtime calm. For a few weeks now. Derek leaves his room open during lunch in case, by some miracle, a student cares enough to ask for help. Of course, that means that when Stiles and Erica decide to start eating in his room, he’s trapped with them.

“Don’t you have, like, some shutting up to do?” Derek asks. It’s juvenile. Oh fucking well. That’s what happens when you spend all day with teenagers. They’re rubbing off on him. 

Spending time with them means he’s learned to anticipate a dirty joke, and he really needs to self-censor better. Even if it’s just in his head. 

“You look guilty,” Stiles says. “Maybe you should grade those tests you said would hand back last week.”

“Yeah, howabout no?” He _would_ have finished grading but he’s been book-marathoning Game of Thrones since last week and fuck Stiles, he just doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

“I gotta jam,” Erica says to Stiles. “Meet you after English.” She kisses him on the cheek as she leaves and Derek grimaces.

“You finally got yourself a little girlfriend?” Derek asks, sneering a little.

“What?” Stiles looks genuinely confused. “Oh, _Erica_? Not even. We’ve just been hanging out a lot because Scott has been otherwise _occupied_. I’m not sure if I want to thank you or blame you for that one.” 

“What did I do _this_ time?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Well, thanks to your deeply romantic soul, Scott and Allison are now the cutest couple to ever cute, so I haven’t been getting all my proper Scott time for the past, oh, about _two months_.” 

“Wow. Poor you. It’s not like you see him in class every day.” 

Stiles just looks at him, like he’s unable to comprehend Derek’s stupidity, which, _fuck you very much_. Derek has degrees. _Plural_. He doesn’t need this shit. 

“Go away. I hate you,” he says, and Stiles smirks like he thinks it’s not true. 

It is true. It is.

It’s at least mostly true. 

Probably about seventy percent true. 

No, fuck that, it’s a hundred percent true because Stiles is a little shit and Derek’s not going to feel bad for hating one of his students. The worst of his students. The absolute worst.

 

The next week, Derek gets a text from an unknown number.

**Do you like orange chicken?**

Derek stares at his phone for a moment. It’s lunch, but Stiles isn’t here, so he can’t ask if he recognizes the number. 

Wait.

**This better not be who I think it is.**

A second later, he gets: **If you’re thinking it’s the awesome person who’s bringing you lunch, then you are correct.**

Derek narrows his eyes, glancing around the empty room like he’s afraid someone is watching. 

**You better get me a coke.**

After a second, he follows it up with: **How did you get this number anyway? Because you better lose it.**

He sets his phone on his desk. Looks at the papers he should _really_ start grading. His phone buzzes, and he pauses for a minute before looking at the screen.

**I have my sources :)**

At least it’s not a goddamn winky face. This is already toeing the line of _bad_. Like, bad. Sure, his UIL team has his number, but that’s only so that when they go to competition, if someone gets lost (it’s happened _way_ too many times) they can find each other and Derek doesn’t get fired for losing a student. But they were given _strict_ orders that his number is a _privilege_. Which means there’s a leak. Someone gave his number away. If it’s to who he thinks, he’s kicking someone off the team. 

Peter swings in at that moment, whistling. 

“You know, _glaring_ at the tests doesn’t actually grade them,” he says, leaning against one of the shitty desks. 

“A student has my number.” He gives Peter a very serious look because this is _serious_. If word gets around, it could be _bad_.

Peter frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did Stiles give it to someone? I told him it was for his contacts list only.” Derek _doesn’t_ throw anything at him, but only because the nearest thing is his school-issues macbook and he’d get in trouble for breaking Peter’s face with it. 

“I’m actually going to kill you,” Derek says. “Why the _fuck_ would you give him, of all people, my number?”

“Relax, I was kidding. Unless…it was him?” Derek nods. “Are you sure? Because I gave it to him last year, I think. Stiles was on my team, and I thought I needed to call you on the way to competition, but I was driving. It turns out one of my little peons actually _did_ pack the snacks, so crisis averted.” 

Derek grimaces. “Well, thank God I didn’t end up meeting him sooner than I had to. That kid is a menace.”

“He’s not _that_ bad. He gets my jokes.”

“Probably because he has a terrible sense of humor.” Derek rolls his eyes, thinking about it. “What did you want anyway?”

“Laura wanted the three of us to go to lunch, so she sent me to persuade you.” 

Derek shakes his head. “Can’t. Busy. Grading. Have fun.” He’s not going to say that he’s also being brought lunch by his least favorite person. Whatever. 

Peter leaves and twenty minutes later, Stiles and Erica come in with takeout bags and cups. Stiles checks through the styrofoam cartons and places one and a drink on Derek’s desk. Derek looks at it, glares at him.

“Oh, don’t even,” he says, then sits with Erica. Derek looks at the food again, rolling his eyes.

“ _Thanks_ ,” he grinds out, because that’s polite. “But I’m serious. Lose my number.”He gets out his wallet. “How much, anyway?”

“Nada, loser. Just admit that I’m your favorite.”

Derek glares at him, throws a ten dollar bill in his general direction.

And later, after Stiles leaves, he picks it up off the floor, scowling. Stiles better delete his number at least. Not good. A girl once sent Peter nudes, and he’s _not_ going to have a repeat of that situation. Not that Stiles would ever send him nudes. He’s a lot of things, but he’s above that much. And he’s annoying, but he’s not actually a stalker, but still. It’s the principle of the thing. 

* * *

Stiles is hanging out at Sonic with Erica after school now that it’s getting warm enough to properly enjoy Happy Hour. Spring semester means Scott’s at lacrosse practice. Stiles was on the team his first two years, but he’s come to terms with the fact that it’s not exactly his area. At least in cross country, he can actually _participate_. 

Erica takes a gulp of her slush, then says, “You know, Hale mentioned you in class today. I think he found the Grumpy Cat picture you stuck in his textbook.”

“Jesus, I put that in there _two weeks_ ago. He should be ashamed he hasn’t opened his book since then.”

“Yeah, when was the last time _you_ opened _your_ book?”

Stiles sticks his tongue out at her. “Not fair. You know I’m an auditory learner.”

“Bullshit,” she says amiably. “Does he know about your thing?”

“What thing?” Stiles frowns as he sips his milkshake. 

“You know. Your whole crush thing.”

Stiles gives her a look. “Are you kidding me? It’s _not_ like that.” He doesn’t do crushes on teachers. That’s so… _high school_. Anyway, that’s not what it’s like with him and Derek. They’re antagonistic acquaintances who use banter as a cover for their deep underlying friendship. Or something like that. 

“So you have no feelings for him. None at all.”

“ _No_ ,” Stiles tells her with confidence and maybe a little derision.

“So you just bring him coffee sometimes.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You _know_ how he gets without caffeine. It was a humanitarian effort.”

“ _Right_.” She’s not convinced, but he’s not going to defend himself. That’ll just make it worse. He _will not_ protest too much.  

* * *

Somehow, when Derek wasn’t paying attention, his classroom started filling up at lunchtime. 

Apparently, Stiles and Scott decided that the best way to get their _bro time_ (as Stiles calls it) was to each lunch together, and _apparently_ , the place they decided to do that at was Derek’s room. But Scott brought Allison and Allison brought Lydia, Jackson, and Danny, who brought a few other kids along, the kind of kids who _want_ to sit with them but aren’t close enough friends to. So now his room is pretty loud during lunch and, of course, it’s Stiles’ fault. 

“You’re getting popular,” Laura teases over margaritas one night. 

“ _Unfortunately_.” 

She rolls her eyes. “It’s _cute._ You try so hard to be that mean teacher, but they like you anyway. That’s so sweet.” She pinches his cheek and he smacks her hand away. She’s not _that_ much older. 

“It’s really not,” he tells her, only half believing it.

 

One of the kids who starts eating in his room is this skinny, hollow-eyed boy. He wears a lacrosse jersey sometimes, so that must be his connection to the rest of the group, but he doesn’t sit with them. His name is Isaac and he’s in Derek’s first period. Derek’s heard about four words from him. There’s nothing particularly interesting about him until one day, as everyone’s leaving for their fifth period, he gets up, pulls on a hoodie, and the movement pulls his shirt up in the back just long enough for Derek to see a rainbow of bruises. He tugs his shirt down quickly, and Derek just sits there, stunned. 

It could be from lacrosse. It’s a physical sport. It probably happens all the time. And Derek doesn’t want to overreact if that’s all it is. But he can’t tell for sure. He doesn’t know if that’s a normal thing or not. 

But then during sixth, his conference period, Stiles comes into his room with his usual grin. 

“Go to class, Stiles,” Derek tells him, mind stuck on Isaac’s bruises. 

“Aide period. Just taking a lap, thought I’d see about that quiz yesterday. Did I fail? Because I think I just circled random answers.”

Derek looks up at him, not caring about his grades in the slightest. “I haven’t graded them yet. Go away.” 

Stiles sighs heavily, dramatically, and stands there for a moment before heading for the door.

“Wait,” Derek says, surprising himself. “Scott does lacrosse, yeah? Does he get bruised from it?”

Stiles’ eyes narrow as he thinks about it. “His shins, sometimes, from people’s cleats. It’s not really _that_ much of a contact sport. I mean, I took a ball to the ribcage once and that left a nasty bruise, but it’s usually not too bad. Not like soccer or rugby or anything.” 

“Just the front?” Derek asks, frowning.

“I mean, yeah. Accidents happen and maybe a guy will get in the way of a stick or someone’ll have bad aim, but it doesn’t happen often. Why? What’s up?”

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” Derek’s voice sounds far away to his own ears. 

Stiles moves forward, a blur in his zoned-out field of vision. “Someone was bruised. Someone on the lacrosse team. You wanna know if that’s why, but it’s not,” he guesses, and it’s a little creepy how spot-on he is, but he’s a smart kid. Perceptive. “My dad’s the sheriff, you know,” Derek looks up, surprised, and then suddenly not. “I can give you his number, if you want.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Do that.” Stiles gets to his desk and writes the number down on a post-it note. 

“Who is it?” 

Derek narrows his eyes. “I don’t think I should tell you.”

“I— Kids in that kind of situation sometimes have trust issues. It can be hard to make friends. He might need someone, you know? Especially if…well, if anything happens about it. That can be tough. I’ve— Well, I’ve seen it.”

Derek sighs, massaging his temples. It’s a bad idea to tell him, a really bad idea, and it’s a total breach of privacy, even though Isaac didn’t actually tell him. It’s not his place to share. But even though Stiles is an asshole sometimes, he _does_ have some basic sense of morality and discretion. He’s given Derek a few tips about cheaters. Not names, but ways to stop it. And if he says he’s just going to make friends, Derek trusts him to do just that.

“Isaac Lahey,” he mumbles. “Don’t make me regret telling you that. Now go to class. I have a call to make.” 

When Stiles is gone, Derek leans back in his chair and says to no one in particular, “ _I’ve made a huge mistake_.” 

* * *

When Stiles casually suggested to Scott two months ago that he should make friends with Isaac Lahey, he didn’t realize that he’d be creating an enemy. Okay, not an enemy. But a little bit of an enemy. Because Scott _loves_ hanging out with Isaac, and he actually _gets_ to because they’re on the team together. Now that they’re going to state, they have practice every day, including weekends, and Stiles feels like he barely sees his best friend at all. But still, every game, he and Erica sit in the stands and cheer. 

Actually, Erica’s getting to be friends with him, too. He’s in Derek’s class with her and, apparently, they’ve been sitting next to each other all year. Go fucking figure.

Stiles isn’t actually sure what all happened with Isaac because he doesn’t want to ask, but he’s pretty sure his dad arrested Isaac’s dad and he has a feeling that Isaac emancipated himself. But he’s not sure. 

What he _is_ sure of is that Isaac and Erica go out one weekend and buy leather jackets together and it gives Stiles a lovely opportunity to make Greaser jokes. And no, he’s not jealous because leather would look ridiculous on him, thank you, Erica. It’s not his style anyway. And everyone who wears leather is compensating for _something_. 

And on a chilly night, when he’s out getting ice cream like a boss and spots _Derek Hale_ of all people getting into his wet dream of a car in a fucking leather jacket, it only proves his point. Derek’s compensating for his inability to express normal positive human emotions by wearing a leather jacket that does some really great things for his shoulders. Jesus Christ. That’s a serious problem. And the _car_. Stiles has seen it in the teacher parking lot before and wondered what kind of teacher drives a black Camaro, but _apparently_ , it’s _this_ fucking asshole. 

Stiles goes home, feeling very strange, and doesn’t realize until he’s in his room that he forgot to get ice cream. 

* * *

The end of the semester is stressful for everyone, and Derek knows that, but some people are better at dealing with it than others. Derek chooses to mainline caffeine so he can get all his grading done and write up study guides for the AP test. It’s a productive way to deal with stress. Some _other_ people choose to put extra effort into annoying everyone around them. 

Stiles rediscovers the childhood art of the paper airplane, and it’s basically the worst thing that’s ever happened to Derek. 

It starts with little ones made out of post-its and note cards when Derek’s at his desk. They’re only equipped to fly the five feet between them, but later in the week, when Derek starts his AP review, he realizes that Stiles has graduated to notebook paper when one of them hits him in the back of the head. 

The class goes silent. Derek turns around very slowly, looks down at the paper airplane, looks up. The students looks like they’re thinking about laughing because it’s not like they respect his authority, not with Stiles in the room.

“In the years I’ve been teaching, I’ve only sent two kids to the office. I’m more than willing to make it three.”

Stiles grins sheepishly because _of course_ he’s not fucking intimidated by that very real threat. 

“If you think you’re so prepared you can screw around, why don’t you give us an overview of Populism, huh?”

The worst part is, Stiles fucking _nails_ it. And he finishes up with, “And that’s what I learned from the musical Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson!” and Scott fist-bumps him for it. That enabler. It only goes to show that Derek has a serious discipline problem. Or a respect problem. Or just a _Stiles_ problem. He’s just not sure what to do about it. 

And of course, Stiles doesn’t stop with the fucking airplanes, like he thinks he’s earned his right to them, and the thing is, Derek doesn’t actually want to send him to the office. 

He _does_ send him into the hall, though. And he just _grins_. 

And of course, when Derek ends the lesson a couple minutes early to go chew him out, Stiles isn’t _in_ the hall. On a hunch, Derek looks in the window of Peter’s class, and there he is. Peter’s teaching freshmen this period, and they’re too scared of him to glance at the upperclassman sitting in the back, shooting hoops with Peter’s nerf basketball. Derek opens the door a little aggressively, enough to be noticed, and points at Stiles.

“ _You_. Out here. _Now_.” Stiles shoots one last hoop and walks with a carefree sort of jaunt to his step that just pisses Derek off. “I’m about a second away from actually writing you up, you know that?” Derek says when he gets him in the hall. 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but he’s got this particular look, this edge to how he’s holding his face and body, and that’s when Derek realizes that this isn’t genuine. This isn’t Stiles just being Stiles; this is Stiles trying _very hard_ to be Stiles. Something’s wrong and Stiles doesn’t want anyone to know that.

“What’s up? Talk to me.” 

Stiles snorts, shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down the hall. He’s not going to answer, that’s clear.

Derek checks his watch, sees that they’ve got about a minute before the class is over and lunch starts, and digs his keys out of his pocket. “Come on,” he says, heading down the hall to his “office”. Technically, the whole history wing has a key, but it’s his coffee maker and microwave on the counter, so they respect the space as his. He unlocks the door, waves Stiles in. “Sit down. Tell me what’s going on.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and doesn’t sit. “You don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Don’t pretend to give a shit.” 

“If I didn’t care, I would just write you up. You’ve given me more than enough reason to. So spill. I’m not leaving until you explain to me why you’re acting like a complete asswipe today.” He makes a point of not swearing around students, unlike Peter, but he thinks it hammers in his point in this instance.

With a beleaguered sigh, Stiles flops onto the couch. “It’s just a bad day. A really bad day. I forgot to write an essay last night, so I woke up early this morning to do it and doubled my Adderall, which is bad, I know. But then I got in a fight with my dad because I was too caught up to remember that it’s my mom’s birthday today. We were going to go to the cemetery this morning before school because my dad’s got the late shift, and I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t want to fail English. It was selfish, I know, and I can’t stop thinking about it and my hands won’t stop shaking and I feel like I’m about two seconds away from a panic attack. So. Yeah. I’m sorry, I just— I can’t right now.” 

 _Well_. 

That’s a lot more than Derek thought. He’d been thinking a broken heart, teenage rejection, something like that. But not so much. It’s a lot more of Stiles’ life than he thought he’d ever know. 

The bell rings, and Stiles jumps at it, cringing, and his hands won’t stay still. 

“You should go home,” Derek tells him after a moment.

“Are you seriously telling me to skip school?”

“Yeah. I am. You shouldn’t be here. Go home. Call it a mental health day.”

Stiles frowns, eyes narrowing. “Can I just do that?”

“Why not?” Derek asks, shrugging. “It’ll be an unexcused absence, but it’s not like the office’ll do anything about it. And  it’s what you need to do.” He looks at Stiles, sees that he’s made up his mind to do it. “Are you okay to drive?” Because he _will_ give Stiles a ride if it comes down to it, but he’s not going to offer unless he needs to.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine. I’ll drive slow. I…thanks. I think.” He winces. “I mean, _thank you_. For not sending me to the office. I wouldn’t have handled that very well.”

Derek doesn’t really know how to say _you’re welcome_ in response to genuine gratitude, so he just shrugs.

“You can stay in here as long as you want,” he says. And leaves.

* * *

There’s a moment where Stiles wonders if he’s making his decision for the right reasons, but he knows he is. Because he doesn’t _want_ to take an AP history course his senior year even though Peter will go easy on him, doesn’t want to take a history at all, and the only way to do that is by taking the classes during summer school. He’d been considering it for a couple months, and it has absolutely no impact on his decision that Derek is teaching the classes he needs during summer school. 

“So are you gonna request me for your class?” Stiles asks during lunch, sitting on his class desk and swinging his legs. He’s working on a new paper airplane design in his lap. A good one, hopefully, but he’s having trouble getting the weight distribution right. 

“Not on your life,” Derek tells him as he grades the last tests of the semester. “Here, make yourself useful: grab a red pen and do some of these.” He grabs a stack of tests and hands them to Stiles without looking at him. They’re sorted by test versions, and Stiles knows he uses five. The key is on top. A little excited, he grabs a red pen, settles into his desk the right way, and gets to work. The room is quiet because everyone else is at some National Honor Society thing that Stiles didn’t see the point of, and it’s weird. He doesn’t spend time with Derek in silence much.

After ten minutes, he says, “But seriously, you should get me in your class. I promise I’ll be good.”

Derek snorts. “Over my dead body. I don’t think you know how to not be a distraction.” 

 _You find me distracting?_ Stiles wants to ask, but there’s a line there, where flirting becomes real and obvious and they don’t need that between them. It won’t help Stiles’ case, and the last thing he wants is for this to get awkward, for Derek to pull away. So he says nothing and he grades and thinks about how that’s _way_ against school policy but Derek’s trusting him with it anyway. And that’s enough. 

* * *

Derek was actually tempted to do something to put Stiles in his class, but he’s smart enough to know it’s a terrible idea. It wouldn’t look good to request a student. So when he sees Stiles’ name on another teacher’s roster, he’s not surprised, given the odds, and he’s not upset, either. Sure, it might be nice to have a student he’s had before in his class, a familiar face, but it’s better this way. 

Fate didn’t seem to get that message.

Summer school is in the science building, all except for the art classes, and with the way it’s set up, the lab rooms are in pairs. Each pair shares an equipment room that they both have access to and, because the school apparently doesn’t think anyone’s going to be stealing beakers, the doors between are left unlocked and open all the time. Derek doesn’t even have a _key_ to that door. It’s like a private hallway, and that would be nothing at all if it weren’t for the fact that Stiles is in the adjoining classroom. 

Honestly, it’s almost like he planned it. Because if, in theory, he were trying to see Stiles as much as possible without drawing attention to that fact, this is the exact set-up he would ask for. But he didn’t. He _didn’t_.

Stiles eats lunch in his room every day, like he did during the year. He sits up on one of the lab tables, eats, does work for his class, and makes paper airplanes that sail towards Derek when he’s turned his back. Sometimes, Stiles will go out for food and bring something back for Derek. 

Somehow, when he wasn’t paying attention, they got to the point where Stiles knows what Derek likes, and it’s weird, but he’s not going to think about. And he feels bad about it, he does, so sometimes, when he thinks Stiles is planning to go out, he’ll pull out a twenty and ask him to pre-emptively. Tell him not to bring him change back. It’s a gradual repayment, but it works well enough for his conscience.

“Where are your friends?” he asks once. Because it’s _weird_ seeing only him. Surely, some of his friends could come visit. It’s _summer_ after all.

“Lacrosse camp, most of them. Erica got a job at Baskin Robin’s. Lydia’s at space camp, that lucky duck. Well, it’s not really _luck_ so much as the stunning power of her intellect, but you know what I mean.”

“Yeah. She can be a little scary sometimes.” Lydia’s one of the very few students he _knows_ got a 5 on the AP test, if only because she probably intimidated it into submission. 

Stiles throws an airplane at him. “Why are you here anyway?”

“Money,” he says, then, more honestly, “Boredom. I didn’t want to spend three months sitting in an apartment with a cat who hates me. This way I can do it for two.”

“Your cat _would_ hate you,” Stiles says with certainty. Then, after a few folds of a new airplane, “Why _do_ you have a cat who hates you?”

Derek sighs. “Long story. I’m lucky the worst I got was the cat, let’s put it that way.”

“What’s her name? Or his. No judgement.” 

“Kate,” Derek answers, and he’s really not sure why. “She liked fire and ruining lives. Still not convinced she was hiding a PCP habit.”

“Do people even _have_ PCP _habits_? Is that a real thing?”

Rolling his eyes, Derek says, “If you met her, you would understand.” He doesn’t mention that she’s Principal Argent’s sister-in-law, or that she was probably the reason he got hired right out of school in the first place. Or that she tried to burn down his apartment and, _thankfully_ , failed. 

“I bet the current girlfriend’s glad she doesn’t have a reason to be jealous, then.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says automatically, then looks up with narrowed eyes. “You’re fishing.”

“Can you blame me? You don’t talk about your life outside of here _ever_.” Probably because he doesn’t _have_ a life outside of school, at least not one beyond his Netflix. Stiles doesn’t need to know that. He already knows too much about Derek’s Netflix. And his bills. Because Derek gets his mail on the way to his car in the mornings and sometimes goes through it at lunch. 

“We’re not friends,” Derek says.

Stiles laughs. “Yep. I know. Because we’re _best_ friends. Despite how much you pretend otherwise.” 

“I hate you.” It’s not real, and they know it; Derek says it too much for it to be true. They have a sort of language between them, where _I hate you_ means _you’re okay sometimes_ , and _go away_ means _I don’t mind hanging out with you_. 

Which is a problem, really. That they hang out so much. Because other than the fact that it’s weird, that it’s obvious that it’s something he only does with Stiles, there’s the fact of how quiet it usually is now. They don’t talk a whole lot. But they’ll sit quietly a lot and do their own thing, and Derek doesn’t want to know what it means that they can sit comfortably in silence.  

* * *

When Scott and Isaac and everyone else come back from lacrosse camp, it’s different. Stiles watches them and knows that they’re closer know. It’s exactly what he thought would happen, honestly. They have secrets. When the three of them hang out together, there’s this weird feeling, like a wall between them. 

At first, he thinks it’s just a bro thing. That they bonded through physical exertion and now they’re blood brother close, like soldiers or something. But as he watches them, he figures out that it’s something more concrete than that. They’re _hiding_ something from him, and wants to know what. If he figures it out, he can deal with it and the three of them can be friends like they should be. No more walls. No more private looks, raised eyebrows at an inside joke that Stiles just doesn’t get.

When he figures it out, he almost sits down in Scott’s swivel chair to slam his head into the desk. Because he knows why they’re hiding it from him. Because they’re _dumb_. So freaking dumb. And really, if they were worried about him finding out, they should’ve been more careful. Stiles was just grabbing a sweatshirt from Scott’s closet, which means that Scott’s mom could have easily been the one to find out instead.

He goes downstairs where they’re playing Mass Effect and gets right in front of the TV (yeah, he knows it’s a bro pas, but whatever, they’re dumbbutts and they can deal). 

“Did you guys _seriously_ think I was a narc?” he asks them. “ _Just because_ my dad is the sheriff doesn’t mean anything about me, you know.”

Isaac and Scott look at each other, guilty, trying to figure out how much he knows. Well, he’ll clarify, then.

“ _You suck at hiding your weed_ ,” he says clearly. “And I wouldn’t tell anyway. _God_.” 

Scott gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, dude. We didn’t really think you would, it’s just…you know.”

“Didn’t wanna risk it,” Isaac says. 

Stiles _gets_ that, alright, he’s not dumb, just a teensy bit insulted. But whatever.

“Wanna get high?” Scott asks, wiggling his eyebrows, and yeah, they’re gonna be okay. 

* * *

The teachers start a week before the students, but there’s not much to do. Meetings, yeah, both full staff and department meetings, checking over technology revisions to the handbook, finalizing syllabi, that sort of thing. He has more to do than last year because he’s doing a sort of administrator-in-training program that comes with a walkie-talkie and a few extra keys, but there’s just an initial meeting for that, nothing to occupy his time.

It all means that Derek has a lot of downtime. He’s not feeling up to talking to Peter because Peter decided to _elope_ over the summer — fourth marriage, third wife — and the family’s not done making him suffer for not even _introducing_ her to everyone. And Laura’s facilitating some freshmen prep thing, so _she_ ’s not available, which means that the only person Derek has left is Deaton. Could be worse.

Deaton’s _diverse_ in his abilities. Not only does he own and, at least half of the time, _work_ at an animal clinic, he teaches psychology, and from what Derek’s heard, he teaches Krav Maga on weekends or something. But he’s a calm sort of guy, even though everything he says seems like it could mean two or three different things. 

Derek drops in to say hello, hoping for a distraction.

His blinds are all open, and his room looks out onto the main courtyard. The freshmen thing is in full swing; there’s at least three hundred students running around in two t-shirt colors. The darker ones are upperclassmen, Derek realizes, helping out, and he spots Laura just before a kid in a dark shirt waves at him. _Stiles_. Derek shakes his head clearly at him, then turns to Deaton. 

“What’re you up to?” he asks, telling himself that he’s not really trying to ignore Stiles because he doesn’t _need_ to ignore him. _He_ ’s not a distraction. 

(Alright, he is, and he’s the best distraction Derek’s ever met, but that has nothing to do with _anything_.)

“Not much. Rotating posters. You?”

Derek shrugs. “Absolutely nothing. It’s—“

“Hey!” calls an all-too-familiar voice. Stiles’ head appears in the doorway. “Don’t you go telling my future teachers bad things about me.” Stiles looks at Deaton. “Everything he says is vicious lies. Lies and slander.” 

“ _Re_ ally?” Deaton says, too amused for Derek’s liking.

Stiles comes into the room. “Yep,” he says and extends a hand. “I’m Stiles Stilinski. I’m in your AP Psych class next year.” They shake hands and Derek wants to be _somewhere else_. “Seriously, though, don’t believe a word he says.”

“I’ll be sure not to,” Deaton says with a smirk. Stiles looks at Derek and shakes his head like a disappointed dad. It’s weirdly humbling. 

“What, you’re not even going to say _hi_? Low, dude. Low.” 

“Go do your—“ Derek waves a hand at the near-riot outside “— _thing_. Or I’ll tell Laura you were skipping out on your duties.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“ _Go away_ ,” Derek tells him, wondering if, after two months, their language is still the same. 

Stiles smirks. “I missed you, too,” he says, and then he’s bounding off with too much energy, leaving Derek feeling shaky, like muscle fatigue, like he’s run a marathon. 

“Got yourself a handful there,” Deaton says conversationally.

“ _Not anymore_ , thank God. Two semesters was more than enough. I’ve done my time.”

Deaton’s eyebrow quirks up. “He’s that bad?”

“Well,” Derek says, then sighs. “No, he’s not. He’s a smart kid. Likes to talk, but I think that’s mostly because he doesn’t have any respect for me. He’ll respect you, though. He’ll be fine for you.” 

Deaton hums, looking at him like he’s considering something, and nods. 

As usual, Derek has no idea what he’s thinking.

 

That first official school day, Doesn’t realize until Stiles swoops into his room that he’d been waiting for him, expecting him, _hoping_ for him, against all better judgement. That doesn't bode well.

* * *

 

TBC


	2. Part Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I had too much fun with this fic, but whatever. It's what it is. Which is longer than I meant it to be, but OH WELL.
> 
> I'll have Part Trois up tomorrow morning :D

Stiles has a lot on his plate this year. After months and months of prep for applications, he actually has to start _doing_ them. Which means he has to figure out where he wants to apply, what he’s going in for, if he even has a _chance_. His SAT scores are good and his grades are good, but they’re not _great_. He’s not getting into a top tier school, he knows that. And he’s okay with it. 

He knows what he wants to do, he thinks. He’s kind of known his entire life. But he’s thinking about trying a double major now. Deaton’s class is _great_ , a light in the darkness of his academic boredom, and he’d like to keep on that track. It could work. Criminology and Psychology go well together. It’ll work. 

But then he has to figure out his resume, his letters of rec. That’s what lands him in Derek’s room after school one day. It’s quiet, a little dark because it’s the afternoon and the sun is on the other side of the school, not trying to push through the blinds. He sits on his old desk, watches Derek grade for a few minutes. It’s peaceful, outwardly, but he’s twisting a little inside. 

“What do want?” Derek says, a little too sharp for the delay since he came into the room. Stiles fiddles with a piece of paper in his pocket, pulls it out and starts on an airplane.

“Would you write me a letter of rec?” he asks. It comes out confident, which is good. Because he has no idea what Derek will say. It’s not like Stiles was a model student or anything. 

Derek stops grading for a second, but his pen stays in his hand. “Bring me a list of things you want me to talk about.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles tells him. In the quiet that follows, he realizes that he’s not going to do it. It feels too weird. It _is_ weird. Derek knows him better than any teacher, _way_ better, and the idea of writing out bullshit about his personality or his work ethic or whatever so that he has something to go off of is pointless. Derek could write one without it _easily_. And Stiles doesn’t want him to write the letter Stiles wants. He trusts him to write something generally positive, but Stiles doesn’t want to know what’s in it. If Derek wants a checklist of positive qualities, then it’s useless because that means he has nothing to say on his own. Stiles is smart enough to know that. 

Derek doesn’t bring it up again anyway.

 

Between Erica’s job and _Scott_ ’s job with Deaton at the animal clinic (lucky duck) Stiles has two options for after school: go home and sit in an empty house until his father comes home, or find something else. The something else is Derek’s room. It’s not like they’re chatty, but Stiles gets his homework done while Derek does his thing, and it’s better than being alone. It’s a _lot_ better than being alone. Other people drop in, too, it’s not like it’s _that_ weird. 

And it feels _off_ with his dad, anyway. They both know he’s going to be in the house for less than a year, that it’ll suck when he leaves, and Stiles feels weird hiding things from him. _Obviously_ , he’s not going to tell his dad what he and Scott and Isaac get up to, but they’ve never really had secrets before. 

“Why are you here?” Derek asks one day. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t move, but Stiles knows it’s a general question, that it contains weeks within it.

“I don’t want to go home,” he says simply. If he wanted to talk about it, he _could_. Derek would listen. But it’s easier not to. 

* * *

There’s a weird trend with Stiles, where he brings people where he goes. 

For years, after the final bell, Derek would sit in his classroom and screw around until it was late enough to get dinner and go home. Sometimes, a custodian would come in. Or, right after the bell, some kid overly worried about a grade on a test he hasn’t graded yet. And then Stiles starts sitting in his room. Not every day, or anything. But a few days a week. 

Peter starts coming in. He’s pinged Derek as the most sympathetic of the family, but really, he’s just the weakest-willed. He talks about students, mostly, or other teachers, just general gossip, but sometimes he’ll slip in something about his wife. The thing is, Derek sees that divorce coming from a mile away. It won’t last. He damned them by not introducing her to the family like he should have in the first place. Their family doesn’t _do_ secrets. 

And then there’s Laura. She probably just notices that Peter’s coming in, so when he’s not there, she comes in sometimes. The first time, Stiles is there, and she gives Derek a little smile, like _good job for letting your students hang out with you_. But between that time and the next time the three of them are in a room together, she must have realized that Stiles isn’t his student anymore. Each time it happens, she’s surprised, and then the surprise turns into something else. Something just below suspicion. And what’s Derek supposed to do with that? He can’t say anything to Stiles without bringing it up in a way that would make it weird. So he doesn’t and Laura starts giving him looks. Starts saying “Oh, _you’re_ here,” when Stiles is in the room.

There’s Erica, too. She seems to work four days a week, and her off day is Friday, which Stiles is _rarely_ in his room for. 

She comes in one day and says, “Stiles says you’re good for advice.” 

Derek’s not sure what he ever did to give Stiles _that_ impression, but he gives her a look that invites her to go on.

“It’s not really boy _problems_ ,” she says. “I just have two options and I’m not sure what to do about it.”

So she tells him about how she hangs out with Isaac a lot, how she likes bad boys, she does, because they’re fun, but she doesn’t really see it going anywhere with him. And then there’s the boy in her tech theater class, this quiet, smart kid, and she thinks she might like him, but she’s not sure if it’s just because he’s so different from Isaac. Derek listens, not sure when _this_ became his role, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done for Laura before. 

“Trust your instincts,” he tells her. “One of them will feel right. Go for that one.” 

She seems to think that’s good enough, and Derek feels like he’s done something right.

* * *

“I’ve got a plan,” Stiles says to Erica as they head to his Jeep to go to lunch. “So, Lydia’s Halloween party is coming up, right? Well, we know Isaac’s going, but why don’t you invite Boyd? That way you can hang out with him outside of campus. And maybe something will happen. With either of them. And you’ll figure it out.”

She shrugs, nods, and Stiles has a good feeling about the whole idea.

 

Two weeks later, they’re all at Lydia’s and everyone’s a little wild. It’s the first _real_ party Stiles has been to, and he’s drunk and a little high and everyone seems so _happy_. Except the whole Erica-Isaac-Boyd situation seems to be going nowhere. She’s splitting her time between them, talking and sipping too-strong mixed drinks, and Stiles knows he needs to make something happen. He gets an idea. It might not be a _great_ one, but it sounds pretty good to him at the moment.

He pulls the three of them onto the makeshift dance floor. “Everyone needs to loosen up!” he tells them, and gives Erica a look, a _go with it_ look. With that, he kisses her. Not for long, just long enough. Stiles doesn’t think about how the only other person he’s kissed is Scott, years ago, as a joke-dare-experiment that they don’t really talk about.

And then he kisses Isaac. Fortunately, they’re both at a place where it seems like a good idea. It’s just a bit of drunk fun.

He keeps dancing like nothing’s happened, and it’s cool. They’re all cool. 

That’s when Stiles goes for Boyd. As he does, he sees Erica lean in towards Isaac, and it’s great. Boyd is a little surprised, but he doesn’t seem _against_ the idea or anything. Stiles is kind of _whatever_ about it because no one here is really his type, but that’s fine. That’s not at all the point. 

When Stiles starts just dancing again, Erica kisses Boyd, and that’s it. He can tell the moment they realize that’s what they want to be doing. 

“I’m a genius,” Stiles tells Isaac, and he snorts, and they dance while Erica and Boyd make out and everything’s good. It’s great. Stiles will be fist-bumping Erica later, when she’s not so busy with an armful of hot man. 

Stiles dances like the world is falling down around them, without a thought in his head.

* * *

“You should date,” Laura tells Derek over breakfast one weekend. She’s been hinting at it for a long time, but hasn’t been so blunt yet. 

“Yeah, _right_.”

She gives him the sort of look that demands eye contact. “I’m serious, Derek. It’s been years since you last went on a date. Honestly, you need a life. You’re at school too much.”

“The only people I know are other teachers. I’m _not_ going to be a repeat of Peter.” Peter’s first wife (also: first _and_ third divorces) taught at the school. She moved after they broke it off the second time. It had been awkward all around, between courtships and legal battles and the affair he had with her while married to his second wife. Not a good situation. Or series of situations. 

“Then don’t. Go out to a bar or something. _Meet_ someone. I’m worried about you, goober.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “I’m _fine._ It’s just not a good time right now. But I’ll keep my options open, okay?” He has to say that to placate her, but he’s honest when he says it’s not a good time. It just isn’t. His career is in a weird place right now. It would just be a bad time for having someone else in his life. 

* * *

Everyone’s at Isaac’s, which is an awesome thing that started happening. He has an apartment, just one bedroom, that he pays for _who knows how_ , but it’s a great place for hanging out. Scott and Allison are semi-off at the moment after a bad dinner with her parents so she’s _definitely_ not present, but everyone else — Stiles, Erica, and Boyd — are hanging out. Smoking, drinking the beers Boyd somehow got ahold of, and watching Arrested Development. It’s what they do on most Friday nights. 

“Does anyone mind if I have a couple more people over?” Isaac asks, and no one _really_ minds, even though their dynamic is good as it is. 

So that’s how Greenberg and the twins end up hanging out with everyone. It’s not _terrible_. Stiles isn’t really fond of Greenberg and he doesn’t actually know the twins _at all_ , just knows that they’re named Ethan and Aiden, and one of them is gay and the other might have hooked up with Lydia. But he has no idea which is which, and two bowls and four beers in, he doesn’t particularly care. 

“I’m just saying, _everyone_ ’s gotten some but me,” Stiles says sometime after midnight. “Not fair.” He’s not looking at Erica and Boyd, they way they’re curling into each other and how that means they’re probably going to be heading out soon. At least Allison isn’t here, because as much as he doesn’t like to see Scott mope, emotionally, he’s in no place to see them being cute and coupley.

It’s usually not this bad. He’s not sure why it is this time. 

“I’m sorry, dude,” Isaac says. He’s hooked up with _plenty_ of people, and it looks like he might be going for one of the twins tonight. 

“Like, I don’t even know _how_ , you know? It’s pathetic.” He finishes his beer — not sure how many that is, actually, so he should slow down — and misses the recycling bin by a solid foot. “Fuck this shit. Let’s put some music on. I wanna dance.” 

Dance he does, and he gets into, gets everyone else into it. Almost enough distraction for him to miss Isaac and Ethan-or-Aiden heading off to Isaac’s bedroom. At which point Stiles thinks about stealing a cigarette from the pack on the coffee table, doesn’t, and looks to Scott to see if he wants to pack another bowl. But he’s not _actually_ feeling it, so he goes to the bathroom to take a piss. That’s when he realizes how drunk he is. Which is _a lot_ , but water on his face feels good, and he zips his jeans up on the first try. 

The closed door to Isaac’s room is right across the hall. Music’s still going in the living room, and everyone’s still dancing without him. They probably don’t realize he’s not in there, not with the extra bodies. 

He’s not even really sure why he does it, but he opens the door. Ethan-or-Aiden, shirtless, is on the bed and Isaac’s on his knees in front of him and yeah, that’s the first blowjob Stiles has ever witnessed in real life. They notice him at not precisely the same time, and he just stands there, like an idiot. He should _go_. What’s he _thinking_? Or not, because he’s definitely not thinking. Or he wouldn’t be here.

“Dude?” Ethan-or-Aiden asks, an eyebrow raised. Stiles is paralyzed.

There’s a slick sound when Isaac pulls off — _holy God, that is someone else’s penis, that is a penis belonging to another living person_ — and he wipes at his mouth before saying, “No, it’s cool. He’s cool. You wanna try, Stiles?” 

He should really say no, should blame it on the alcohol and get the fuck out of there, and he knows that, but somehow the door shuts behind him and he’s walking over and it’s a _bad_ idea. But he’s doing it anyway. 

“Well, this is better than I imagined,” Ethan-or-Aiden says because really, who wouldn’t want to get a blowjob from two people? And yeah, this is happening, Stiles realizes as he drops to his knees. Isaac moves over to make room for him between Ethan-or-Aiden’s spread thighs and Stiles looks up for a second before taking him in his mouth. That’s Isaac’s spit that he’s already slick with, fuck, this is too weird, but he shuts his eyes and does his best.

It’s practice, that’s what it is. For someone he actually gives a shit about. But his body feels wrong, like his nerves are firing the wrong signals, because the dick in his mouth feels cold and clammy and his mouth feels foreign, like it’s far away, numb. Isaac’s hand touches his back: encouragement. It’s fine, he’s opening his mouth wider, going all the way down. Does what people do. 

It doesn’t take long before his eyes are like faucets and his jaw feels broken and his throat is sore from gagging and he just doesn’t _care_. About anything.

It’s a mistake. 

Stiles pulls off, reexamines his enemy. Well, okay, this guy’s dick isn’t really the enemy, but it feels like some sort of fight. What he’s fighting is a mystery, but whatever.

Isaac wraps his hand around the base of Ethan-or-Aiden’s dick, licks, looks at Stiles under his lashes. Invites him. Stiles accepts that invitation, but he just feels like an impostor here. So he sits back on his heels, watches Isaac take him down again, and Stiles is done. He’s satisfied. Well, he _isn’t_ , but he’s realized that he _won’t_ be, not by this, and he just leaves. 

* * *

Derek’s digging through the cabinets in his room at lunch when Erica comes in. She zeroes in on Stiles, who’s sitting in Derek’s chair behind his desk and looking entirely too comfortable and working on some bizarrely complex plane that'll probably never work. Rolling his eyes, Derek turns back to what he’s doing.

“ _You_ ,” she says, coming at him like a freight train. Derek smirks to himself because that is _not_ something Derek would want coming at him. “You didn’t tell me!” she hisses, and that’s the sound of her smacking him. 

“What are you talking about?”

She laughs, an angry sound, then says a bit more quietly, “Oh, you _know_ what you did, you slut.” A pause, and Derek’s doing something, he is, and it’s definitely not eavesdropping. “I can’t believe I had to hear it from Isaac. You owe me details. He said something about _teaching_? You better tell me what that means, I can’t believe you—” 

“It was nothing. Let’s get lunch. _Now_ ,” Stiles says, and they’re out of the room in a matter of seconds. 

Derek realizes that he has absolutely no idea what he’s looking for, just knows that there’s a weird churning in his gut. Okay, he’s not stupid. He knows that high school students have sex. It happens. But for some reason, he hadn’t placed Stiles in a mental category of people who have sex. He’s eighteen, he’s good— well, he’s an average kid. Really average in every way. And Derek’s not going to think about it. At all. Ever. Nope. 

* * *

“I’m going to _murder_ you,” Stiles says as he powerwalks to his car. Erica’s half-running to catch up with him. 

“Hey! You helped _me_ out. I was just trying to return the favor!”

Stiles spins, turns on her with a wide-eyed rage. “That was _not_ a favor. It’s not _like_ that, do you understand? Do you know what you might have just done?”

“Apparently _hit a nerve_ ,” she says, posture defiant. “You’re seriously over-reacting right now.” 

Stiles looks at her for a moment, then drops his gaze, starts walking to his Jeep. Behind him, she skips to keep up. They get in silently, and it’s not until he’s out of the parking lot that he says anything. 

“We have a _line_ , me and him. A really serious line. We don’t _cross_ that line. We don’t even _look at it_ , alright? It’s…it’s not good for anyone. I don’t want anyone wondering if I really pulled A’s in his class on my own after all. It puts him in a really bad position, you know that? _Really_ bad.” 

“And how, exactly, is him knowing that you got some putting anyone in a bad position?” she asks, because she knows. That that’s not _really_ the problem. The problem is that Stiles is embarrassed, that he hates it all, that he’s such a loser that the first time he did anything with anyone, it was while drunk and he doesn’t even know which twin it was, that he let it happen the way it did, that he _made_ it happen. It’s embarrassing. 

He doesn’t want Derek to have any thoughts involving Stiles and sex because he’s honest, and the honest thing is that he’s most of a virgin, and that’s not going to win him anything. But he _doesn’t_ want to win anything anyway. Derek is so far from the realm of consideration, it’s not even funny. Stiles isn’t going to be that kid who swoons because their teacher is attractive, who has some stupid, juvenile crush. That’s not even close to how it is. 

“I don’t want to talk about this, okay?” 

Erica leaves it at that, but probably only because she can tell that Stiles is _not_ in a place to talk. 

* * *

On the second day of the second semester, Derek’s trying to down as much of his thermos as possible before students come in when Stiles appears in the doorway. 

“You mind if I just chill in the back while you do your thing?” he asks. 

Derek checks his watch. “For all of seven minutes?”

“I dropped my first period,” Stiles tells him. “Not because I’m one of _those_ seniors who wants first and last off. It wasn’t working. Personality-wise. So I dropped. They haven’t let me into another class yet, so here I am.” That sounds kind of weird, honestly, but Derek shrugs. If Stiles skips one class, it won’t be the end of his life. “Thanks, man.” Stiles drops his backpack by one of Derek’s bookcases.

“You can’t be on your phone, though. Don’t be a bad example.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Stiles says and pulls a library book out of his backpack.

Derek finishes his coffee a few quick gulps before the first kid comes in. That’s his cue to get moving, so he grabs his lesson notes and heads to the front of the class as kids start filing in. Stiles sits in his chair with something of a smirk, and Derek rolls his eyes. He's probably going to make more of those fucking planes again.

“Out of the chair,” he says, but it’s not like he needs it or anything. And Stiles knows that. He doesn’t move an inch, just opens up his book.

“Did you get an aide?” a girl asks. Stiles snorts in the back; Derek’s been _more_ than clear about his feelings on teachers who think they need student aides. 

“ _No_. He’s just sitting in. Ignore him.”

To his credit, Stiles only talks once during the whole class, and that’s to bring up Abraham Lincoln’s abuses of Habeas Corpus, which Derek will give him. It’s technically not in the book, but _someone_ should say it. At least he doesn’t go on to talk about Lincoln spooning some dude for a few years, like he did in _his_ class. 

But then Stiles is there the next day.

And the next. 

And he looks more pissed off each time. 

“They’re still not done with your schedule?” Derek asks and Stiles looks up from where he’s sitting in the corner.

“What?” Then he gets it, rubs his face, and that’s when Derek knows for sure that he’s been lied to. “No, it’s…it’s complicated, is what it is.”

“What’s up?” Derek asks, turning his chair, giving him his full attention. They have at least ten minutes before any students come in, so there’s time for Stiles to talk about his problems or whatever. 

“It’s Harris’ Chem 2 class, right? And he’s this huge _asshole_ —“ Derek gives him a look that says _don’t talk about my colleagues like that_ “—no, he is. He says stupid shit to me all the time, and I put up with it for my sophomore year, and I thought it would be better, so I gave it a semester, but I’m done. I know I’m not the easiest student to handle, but there’s a difference between annoying or frustrating a teacher and being hated by them. Harris _hates_ me. So I thought, well, I’ll just drop the class, right? Only he won’t sign the freaking _form_. Outright _refused_. He has to, I know he does, okay? I read the student handbook. He just won’t _do_ it. So I’m just not going to his class until he’ll sign. It’s not really working so far, though.” 

Derek sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Come on. Let’s go settle this,” he says, getting up. There’s this sudden fear in Stiles’ eyes, like he thinks Derek’s taking him to Harris. Not happening. He knows the guy’s an asshole, anyway, and Peter hates him, but they can just go over his head. Reluctantly, Stiles gets up and follows him, relaxing a touch when they don’t head for the science building. 

Principal Argent is in her office. Derek exchanges pleasantries, and she looks at Stiles pointedly. Probably wondering why he’s bringing a discipline case to her before the day has even started.

“This is Stiles Stilinksi,” Derek says and gives Stiles a look so he’ll shake her hand. 

“I know Stiles,” Argent says which, _duh_ , because she’s Allison’s mother and Allison and Stiles are friends.

“It’s Harris. Won’t sign the kid’s drop form. It’s getting bad.”

She nods after a beat. “Alright. I’ll talk to him. Do you know what class you’re transferring into?” she asks Stiles.

“Not yet,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Then go to the library and talk to your counselor at lunch about it. Go on.” Stiles darts away, probably intimidated because, hey, she’s _intimidating_. 

“Thanks,” Derek says, and she gives him a considering look as he edges out the door.

Stiles shows up in Derek’s room a few minutes later, and thanks Derek _profusely_. Gratitude’s an unfamiliar look on him, and Derek ignores the way something swells up inside him at it.

* * *

“I need you to do something for me,” Lydia says to Stiles. She’s not really an _asker_ , but that’s okay. It’s just her way. 

“What’s up?”

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder and says, “So, you know how Jackson and Danny and I are doing that quiz competition thing? Well, they’re four person teams, and Greenberg was our fourth, but he just dropped. Can you fill in? State competition’s in three weeks. If we win, we go to Nationals, in D.C.” He narrows his eyes, considering his workload. “Now, Hale is pretty selective about his line-up, but I have a feeling he’ll put up a big fuss about you, then let you do it anyway.”

“Which Hale are we talking about here?” he asks, suspicious because last time they competed with Peter as their mentor or whatever, they almost died on the way there. Because he’s an _abysmal_ driver. It was terrible. He was only sixteen, way too young to see his life flash before his eyes. 

“The grumpy one with a soft spot for you, sweetie. Will you do it?” She gets this smile and Stiles realizes that she _knew_ he’d say yes when she didn’t ask in the first place.

Stiles sighs. “Fine. But if we make it to Nationals, I call shotgun next to him on the plane. I could torment him for _hours_ , and he’d have no escape.” He’s thinking about finding coloring books, maybe some kind of magnetic board game already.

“I’ll even cover for you if you go for the Mile High Club.” Stiles makes a face because she, of all people, knows that that’s not a thing. They have an agreement about it. “Study session in the library at lunch. See you there.”

* * *

Derek’s not sure how Stiles ended up on his quiz team, but it’s definitely Lydia’s doing. He trusts her not to bring in anyone that’ll ruin her chances at winning, and it’s not like Stiles isn’t smart enough. _Does he care_ is the real issue, but if Lydia’s involved, he probably does. And Danny. Apparently, he and Danny are sort-of friends. Jackson, not so much, but Jackson only likes two people, and that’s Danny and Lydia, so that’s not surprising. 

But it means that after a few study sessions, they’re looking at the actual event. Everyone’s excited because in addition to it being in the city, it’s on a school day, so they’ve all got an excused absence. Stiles’ first period teacher didn’t seem to get the memo, according to him the afternoon before. She’s apparently not pleased that he transferred into her Journalism class in the second semester, and she’s making him present that morning. Which’ll be fine because the competition’s not until the afternoon, but it means Stiles can’t drive there. The other three are free to take their own car because they’re not showing up to school at all, but for legal reasons, a student can’t leave campus in their own vehicle to get to a school-sponsored event. 

Stiles doesn’t seem to be fazed by that, though. Not in the slightest. Because that means that in addition to having to teach his first class, Derek has to drive him. The city’s only a couple hours away, but he has a feeling that time will pass a lot slower in an enclosed space with Stiles. 

“They all want to meet at Panera for brunch,” Stiles says when he shows up in Derek’s room at the bell. “Cram session. I’m thinking the one by the highway? It’s on our way.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “Sounds good. I need to get some stuff together for the sub. I’ll meet you at my car. Back lot.” He gives Stiles a look that sends him off. Really, Derek got the DVD and some instructions ready for the sub yesterday during his conference period, but they’re in a weird gray area for school policy. Technically, because one of the students is in a class, what’s supposed to happen is that Derek’s supposed to have rented a van and the other three are supposed to show up on campus so they can all leave together. Technically. But a van costs money, and they don’t actually have a budget for the team, and Derek may have splurged earlier this month buying books on Amazon. Basically, he doesn’t have the two hundred for the van, and he’s not going to ask everyone on the team for fifty bucks. 

So what they’re doing is technically not allowed. It wouldn’t look great for Derek and Stiles to walk to the faculty parking lot together, so Stiles is going to get there first and Derek’s going to take the long way so no one sees both of them, and it’s going to be totally fine. 

No one stops him on the way there, and the only person within a hundred yards of the parking lot is Stiles, so they’re good. He knows which car is Derek’s, but it’s the only camaro in the parking lot, so that’s not all that surprising. 

“Not gonna lie, dude, I’ve had dreams about riding in a car this nice,” Stiles says when Derek unlocks it. Derek stops, fingers a little too tight on the key fob for a second, before getting in. He’s not going to think about it, he’s not. 

“If you touch the radio, I’ll kill you,” Derek tells him, keys in the ignition. “We clear?” 

“Crystal, dude.”

Derek rolls his eyes, looking over his shoulder to back out. “Don’t call me dude.”

* * *

At Panera, Stiles checks his phone. Lydia hasn’t texted him yet, which doesn’t bode well. She’s awake, he knows that much, but it means she’s not checking her phone. Or she’s ignoring him. Neither are good. 

Stiles shifts his study binder into his other arm and looks up at the menu. 

“You know what you want?” Derek asks, gruff. He’s not great in the mornings, usually. 

“Just a coffee,” Stiles says. “I ate breakfast. Might grab a sandwich later, but— No, strike that, I’m getting a croissant. That’s happening.” The next open cashier calls them up. Well, calls Derek up, and he waves Stiles to come with him. And orders for him. Pays for him. That’s chill, it’s not something Stiles hasn’t done for him a million times. And it’s just breakfast anyway. Breakfast is something you take your grandma to. It’s totally cool. 

Derek hands Stiles his croissant and both of the coffee cups. “Black, three sugars,” he says, waiting for his bagel to finish toasting. 

Stiles takes longer with the coffee than Derek does paying and all, so Derek’s the one who picks out where they sit. He grabs a table near a couple of booths, though they’ll only need one, and that’ll be fine. Stiles sits with him at the table, sets his binder down in the booth. Shoots a **Where are you?** text to Lydia. 

They eat pretty quietly, but Stiles finishes his croissant pretty quick, and then he has to talk. “So, how was your class this morning?” he asks. 

“Fine,” Derek says. “Just a movie.”

“Where are they now? It’s March, right? They should be around the Great Depression, yeah?”

Derek nods, chewing. “Red Scare right now. As usual, it’s depressing if you have any hope for the future of America.”

“How many kids have asked about Obama being a socialist?” Stiles asks with a smirk. 

“Three. _So far_. It hurts.” Stiles laughs because the level of willful ignorance at his school is the kind of thing you either laugh about or cry about. Derek just looks that mix of cynical and broody that he usually does, so Stiles pulls out his phone because he doesn’t have much else to say and _Lydia should be here_. 

There’s no new messages, so he sends her another, Danny and Jackson too, and as he’s typing, his ears pick out someone saying “ _Why don’t you ask that couple over there? They’re not using all four chairs_ ,” and this woman comes over to them a second later, a polite smile on her face.

“Sorry, gentlemen, but could we borrow one of your chairs?” Derek nods, a little stilted, and as the back of Stiles’ neck burns, he wonders if Derek overheard her friend too. Shit. Fuck. Great, he probably did, and now it’s even more awkward. 

Stiles looks at his phone, about to just _call_ Lydia when he hears Jackson’s whine. 

“ _There_ they are,” Lydia says as Stiles turns to spot them. She marches over, thick binder in her not-purse arm, with Danny and Jackson in tow. “Sorry, didn’t check my phone. We went to the other one.” She slides into the booth gracefully. “Jackson, coffee. Now, Stiles what are you doing? We have studying to do.” Stiles slides into the opposite booth, Danny sliding in beside him.

“You _always_ check your phone,” Stiles hisses at her over the table. 

She doesn’t look at him, flipping through her binder. “Well, I was a little busy this morning. Now we have work to do.”

“I’m getting a refill. Don’t burn the place down,” Derek says, slipping away. When he’s out of hearing distance, Stiles leans forward again.

“Do you even _know_ how awkward it was waiting for you? Pretty sure he actually might hate me.” 

Lydia takes a deep breath, looking at him, then takes his hands. “Stiles, you know he’s in love with you, right?” For a moment, Stiles doesn’t move. Just stares at her, a dumb, outraged look on his face. Then he yanks his hands away.

“That’s _stupid_. Don’t say shit like that. You _know_ better than that.” 

“When is Lydia wrong?” Danny asks, then, “Come on, let’s get to work, guys.” Derek and Jackson get back to them a second later and Stiles wants to _kill_ _everyone_. Lydia _completely_ knows better. They’ve had a drunk conversation about how it’s not going to happen and how he doesn’t want it to anyway. She’s actually the _only_ one who’s ever seemed like she understood that. And now he finds out that she’s a freaking Judas. Fucking hell.

Stiles can’t pay attention now because he keeps hearing it repeated in his head, in that stupid tone she used. Like she was breaking some sort of hard-to-take news to him in the gentlest way possible.  

* * *

Derek lets Stiles play his music on the way to the convention center, and after they get second place, just barely, not qualifying for nationals, Derek takes pity and lets him pick the music for half the ride home. That’s weird because maybe it’s the lull of the highway, but Derek drifts a little bit. He knows a few of the songs Stiles plays, enough to not totally hate his music choices, but the thing is, he can hear it somewhere else. Like the playlist wouldn’t sound wrong somewhere else. He can see himself on the couch with a book, Stiles’ music playing in the background.

That’s when Derek switches to the radio. The eighties, nineties, and millennium station. The sort of music he grew up with, to remind him that Stiles is young, way too young, and it doesn’t fucking matter how old he is anyway because _no_. Just no. 

Which is part of the reason why Derek shuts him down when Stiles asks if he wants to go with everyone else to a team commiseration dinner. Nope. Not happening. He’s fraternizing with his students too much.

“Wait,” Stiles says when they’re just about at the school. “Could you drop me off at home? My dad gave me a ride this morning, since you said I couldn’t drive. I mean, I could walk, but it’s a little ways…”

“Fine. Tell me where.”

The street Stiles tells him makes Derek want to slam his own head into the steering wheel because Derek drives down that street every day. He’s probably passed by Stiles’ house a million times. Jesus. 

Derek tries not to think about which house he drops Stiles off at. Because he knows that every time he passes by it now, he’s going to think _that’s where Stiles lives_ , even when that’s not true anymore, when Stiles is off at college, then when he moves out for good, on to bigger and better things than Beacon Hills. 

That hits him like a sucker punch to the diaphragm. 

For some reason, he’d never thought about it. 

The fact that Stiles is going to be _gone_ soon. He’s not a permanent fixture. He’s going to leave and might never come back. That’s…well, it’s a weird thing. Not so much the leaving, because that’s normal, but the fact that Derek is having trouble wrapping his head around it? That’s weird. That’s really fucking weird. 

He knows why, okay, he’s not stupid. But he’s not going to _think_ about it, not going to put it into words because the second he does, he has a problem. It becomes something real, something he can’t ignore. 

Derek opens a bottle of wine when he gets home because he _can_ , and he reads because that’s enough effort that he can’t think as well. 

* * *

When Stiles gets to the pizza place, Scott and Allison are there. 

“Thank _God_ ,” Stiles says, taking a seat. “Can we do something tonight? It’s a Friday. Let’s get drunk and cut our losses.” 

“My mom said it was fine if I had people over,” Lydia says. That’s all Stiles really needs. They can’t smoke at Lydia’s, but they can definitely drink, and Stiles is more in the mood to be drunk anyway. He’s so ready for it. That’s not healthy, he knows that, but he’s mentally exhausted from brain-vomiting facts today and body-tired from sitting in a car and he keeps hearing Lydia’s voice in his head. It’s freaking him out. 

Maybe when he’s drunk he’ll let himself work it all out, but right now, he’s in no place to.

 

Get drunk is exactly what they do. The six of them play Never Have I Ever first, and Scott is a bro who throws a couple Stiles’ way because he fails for like ninety percent of the sex-related questions, and then they play Kings’ because people are a little buzzed, but not where they want to be. Stiles isn’t where he wants to be. 

But a couple hours after they get there, Stiles is in a good place. He gets out his phone and, on a whim, he shoots a text to Derek that he’ll probably regret later: **I know it was a tough loss, but don’t crawl into a bottle, buddy.** It’s pretty much the opposite of what _he_ ’s doing, except it has nothing to do with them losing. That’s fine. He’s not saying he’s a better person or that he’s better at coping with shit. Not at all. He’s eighteen and he’s not particularly good at being a high-functioning adult, and he’s totally okay with that. 

After Kings’, they all kind of sit around, chatting and listening to music, in the living room. Lydia’s mom is in her room, only made an appearance to ask if they needed anything, and, as usual, they basically have full run of the house. The living room is a good spot, though, because when they inevitably run out of things to talk about, they put on a horror movie. 

Stiles realizes before the movie is half over that he’s not going to be able to drive home tonight. That’s fine. There’s a theoretical second guest bedroom and the couch, so he and Danny can figure out who gets what. If Danny’s staying. But he gets a beer from the fridge during the movie twice, so he’s probably not going anywhere. The others are, though. Stiles doesn’t know why they think the blankets make them subtle, but they’re _not_. If they last through the end of the movie before running off to whatever bedroom they’re sleeping in, Stiles will be surprised. 

Scott and Allison don’t make it, actually, but they’ve stayed in Lydia’s guest room before so they know _exactly_ where it is. When the movie’s over, Lydia gets up, fakes a yawn.

“Can one of you get the DVD player? I think I’m about to pass out.” 

“Liar,” Danny says, grinning. “Go ahead. We got it.”

She and Jackson head off, weird couple that they are. Weird because they’ve been dating on and off for basically forever and for some reason, they’re still pretending they only tolerate each other. 

Danny snorts when Stiles looks back. “I’m gonna get a beer,” Stiles says. “Want one?” 

“Sure. Yeah.” Danny shuts off the TV and turns on a light. When Stiles comes back, he’s sitting on an ottoman. “You tired?” Stiles shakes his head. “Want a smoke?”

Stiles follows him outside to the patio. 

This is the awkward thing about this arrangement, about being friends with couples. It’s not so much that couples aren’t aware of other people; they’re just not aware of what happens to the other people when they’re off having sex. They don’t seem to realize that leaving the mutual fifth wheels alone is kind of awkward for them. It’s okay, it’s not like Danny and Stiles hate each other, it’s just that they’ve never been alone together. 

It’s not bad, though. They smoke and drink their beers and talk about all sorts of things. Mutual friends, future plans, how much it sucks to be where they are in life, that sort of thing. It’s not difficult for them to talk to each other; it comes easy enough, and before Stiles knows it, it’s somewhere around two A.M. 

The neighborhood around them is quiet at this time of night. When their conversation breaks as they light cigarettes, they don’t pick it up again immediately. It’s nice, cool without being cold, and so very quiet. The kind of night that feels magnified by booze and good company, soothes a buzzing head. It’ll be over soon enough, probably won’t make it into his memories, which is a shame. It’s the kind of night he wants to remember. He’ll have to figure out a way to. 

When he does, his mouth opens before his brain has decided it’s a good idea. “Do you wanna hook up?” Stiles blurts. He doesn’t feel too anxious about it, and he can thank the drink and the late hour for that. 

Danny looks at him, considers him, for a moment or two. “I dunno. Is that a good idea?”

“Sometimes that’s not really clear until after the fact.” Danny smiles at that, takes a long drag, then lets the smoke just push its way out of his mouth. 

“Why?” Danny asks. “Why _now_ , I mean. It’s not the first time we’ve been at the same place at the same time, and it’s not like we’re dancing or anything. It just seems like weird timing.”

“I’ve never really…” Stiles thinks about being coy, decides against it. “I’ve never fucked, you know? I’m not sure who I was saving that for, but everyone I know who’s fucked someone they loved has been messed up when they broke up. I want to lose it to someone I’ll be able to say goodbye to.”

That gets him a long look before Danny puts out his cigarette. “Okay,” he says. “I was expecting the _you’re hot and I’m horny_ answer, but that’s one I’ll actually take.” 

Stiles jabs his butt in the ashtray. “Well, good. Let’s go do the sex.” The look he gets could burn through weeds. 

“If you call it that again, it’s not happening.”

“ _Joking_ , sheesh,” he says, following Danny inside. “Does this mean you _do_ find me attractive?”

Danny rolls his eyes. “That was never the problem, you know. I’m not going to be your sexual awakening. At least not in a clingy way. I didn’t want you to think we had something special because I’m attracted to you. I didn’t want you to have feelings for me because I’m the first person who’s ever told you you’re nice to look at.”

“Stop, you’re making me _swoon_.” Stiles finds the guest bedroom, and Danny shuts the door behind him. Being in a room with a bed and the promise of sexual activity is a little bit nerve-wracking, so Stiles deals with it by doing the opposite of his fear-instincts: he takes off his shirt. “Let’s get this show on the road.” 

Danny pulls his shirt off as well, and Stiles throws himself on the bed. In a non-sexy way. In an existential anguish kind of way. He bemoans the ridiculousness of the situation into the plush bedding.

“You know, I have absolutely no idea what you just said,” Danny tells him.

Stiles lifts his face out of the covers, turning to give Danny a glare. “I _said_ , why is it that everyone I know somehow has _abs_? It’s not freaking fair.” Scott, Isaac, Jackson, Boyd, and even, if his guess and a couple instances of shirts being pulled too tight are correct, fucking _Derek Hale_. Jesus. Everyone he knows is part of some sort of six-pack club. Except for _him_. 

“Is this a self-confidence thing? Because don’t have to have abs to be hot, you know. I promise.”

“No, it’s just— You’re what, eighteen? We’re all about eighteen? And I swear, most of you have had abs for _years_. That’s not normal. Jesus.”

Danny sighs. “Coach makes us do three hundred sit-ups every practice. If you had to do it, you’d have abs too.” Stiles flops over onto his back. “Usually, dudes get a little more excited.”

“Oh, no,” Stiles says, sitting up. “It’s hot, don’t get me wrong, I’m all over it, it’s just intimidating.” 

“Not _too_ intimidating, I hope,” Danny says, thumbing the button on his jeans. 

Stiles shakes his head quickly. “Not an issue. Nope. Let’s do this.” Danny pauses, quirking his head.

“What, exactly, do you want to do?”

“The whole shebang. I’ve already given, like, half a blow-jay, but the rest…I trust you, I know you’ve done this, and I want you to fuck me. So I don’t get some asshole to do it later and regret it.” 

Danny pulls a condom and a bottle of lube out of his pocket and tosses them on the bed. 

“Wait, you just _have_ that stuff? Dude, who knew you were a Boy Scout?”

“I was going to have congratulatory sex with my fuck buddy this evening, but things went a little differently than I’d planned. So. Let’s do this,” Danny says. He drops his jeans, which Stiles takes as his cue to wiggle out of his own. Danny looks at him for a second, then says, “You’re kind of nervous, and this isn’t really going to work. You’ve gotta get into it. Wanna make out?” Stiles shrugs, and then Danny’s on the bed, legs on either side of him, pushing him down to the bed. 

It’s not like he’s not into Danny. Danny’s hot and smart and funny, so it’s not hard to get into it. But he’s worried, stupidly, because yeah, he’s a freaking virgin, or at least _half_ of one, and the anticipation is killing him. It’s like what he imagines test anxiety must be like. But by the time he’s pretty much at full chub and Danny pulls off their underwear, he kind of realizes that this is _Danny_. Danny’s not going to hurt him or make fun of him or think less of him, and that realization just kind of melts away everything else. 

Danny talks him through it, too. Explains what he’s doing, gives him tips, tells him that lube is his new best friend. He waits when Stiles is overwhelmed and doesn’t hold back when Stiles decides that he needs Danny to move to be able to figure out if it hurts or if it’s good or what. It’s mostly good, he decides, but not exactly what he was expecting. That’s alright. And Danny’s a good guy, makes Stiles come before he does, grabs a tissue after so he can clean himself up. It’s nice. It’s not a fairy tale, which isn’t what Stiles wanted anyway, but it falls firmly in the category of good experiences. 

“Thanks,” Stiles says as he’s pulling on his clothes. His legs feel a little weird, more than the usual post-orgasm jelly. “I’m gonna sleep on the couch,” he tells Danny. He doesn’t want to cuddle, doesn’t want to pretend this is something it’s not.

 

When he wakes up, he doesn’t feel any different, and that’s when he really _gets_ what Lydia told him once, about virginity being a social construct. He’s not any different. He’s just Stiles, with a little more life experience on his plate. 

* * *

Derek stops by Peter one day at lunch, bored, and there’s no one in his room at the moment. Deaton’s there, which is weird, because Deaton and Peter have this weird I-don’t-dislike-you-but-I-do thing where they don’t talk much, but maybe they’re making peace. 

“How’s it going?” Derek asks, feeling a little bit like an intruder. 

“You know, the same,” Peter says in a way that means _shitty_. He and the wife are fighting, and somehow, Derek managed to act surprised when Peter told him that. 

“Fine,” Deaton answers with a curious look. “Not used to seeing you out of your room. Especially at lunch.”

“You finally a free man?” Peter asks. “Or is Stiles just not here today?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know.” He doesn’t add _I don’t care_ because that’s suspicious.

“I think I overheard him talking about an essay due later today,” Deaton says. “Maybe that’s what he’s doing. But I suspect you have a better than we do.” Derek’s thinking of a way to answer that without taking the inexplicable bait when Stiles slides in like he’s in a John Hughes movie. 

“ _There_ you are,” he says, and Derek’s going to kill him when he says, “Dude, Deaton, I’ve been looking for you _everywhere_. About that final project…” Derek offers up a silent prayer to every religious figure he can think of because there was a feeling for a second there, like it was going to get weird. Uncomfortable. In a way he was _not_ ready for. 

Stiles gets his answer, and Peter says, “Stiles, why don’t you ever drop by _me_? Or is Derek hogging your attention?” Derek snorts, and then he sees Peter’s look and Peter fucking _knows_. _Shit_. And Stiles looks uncomfortable as hell, no freaking wonder, because that’s just an awkward thing to say. 

“I’ve been busy, man. You know how it is. AP tests to study for, acceptance letters to choose between. Besides, you know where to find me.” 

“Yes,” Peter says, “I do.”

“Well, thanks, Deaton. Gotta run,” he says, throwing up a wave. When he’s gone, Derek looks at Peter, realizes that’s a bad idea, so he looks at Deaton. Which is also a bad idea. 

“I keep forgetting that graduation is only six weeks away,” Deaton says. It’s almost an offhand comment, but there’s this split-second where his eyes narrow at Derek that shows it’s not. _Fuck_. 

The escape he makes is barely passable, but he’s trying to keep it together, so there’s that.

* * *

At Starbucks for lunch with Erica and Boyd, Stiles sips on a mocha frappuchino. They’re sitting at a counter with high stools, tall enough that Stiles can swing his legs. 

“You know, there’s still time to find you a girlfriend or boyfriend or something,” Erica says. “It’s nice, you know. I thought I didn’t need a relationship, but _this_ loser proved me wrong.” She takes Boyd’s hand, throws him a private smile. 

“I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of dating. Not so close to leaving.”

“It could be like a summer thing. Just think: regular sex. You could be have sex at least once a day. Sometimes three times. With someone you actually _like_. It’s fucking _great_.” 

“It’s true,” Boyd says. 

“About the three times a day thing, or about it being great?”

Boyd throws his crinkled straw wrapper at him. “Give it a shot, man. It’s worth it.”

“Except I can think of literally _no one_ I would ever date at this school.”

Erica shrugs. “That’s because your standards are ridiculous. They’re too high for you to notice people who might just make you happy. It’s not healthy.”

“You know, I can’t really see you with anyone but Derek,” Boyd says nonchalantly. Like that’s something a person can be nonchalant about. _Dating a teacher_. Who _are_ these people?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, you know. That’s a really weird thing to say. And it’s not like we could just _date_ anyway. That’s not how it works.” Not in real life, at least. In porn, maybe, but he’s missing a pleated skirt and a lollipop. “Really funny, but no, I’ll stick to hook ups, thank you very much.” 

“You two talk like a married couple, you know,” Erica says.

“Me and Boyd? Well, there’s something we need to tell you, actually…” 

Erica smacks his arm. “I’m serious, loser. People I don’t know, people _you_ don’t know have asked me about it.”

“Gross,” Stiles says. “I’m not jailbait, and it’s capital-w Weird anyway.”

“I know you’re not jailbait; you turn nineteen in a week, sweetie. You’re, like, eighty-five percent of an adult. And once you graduate, you’re fair game.”

“That’s a little creepy,” Boyd tells her.

“I _know_ ,” she says with a heavy sigh, “but I’m trying to make a _point_.”

Stiles knows exactly what point she's trying to make, and that's why he slurps up the rest of his drink with a scowl.

* * *

TBC

 


	3. Part Trois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ENJOY!!!

Derek’s sitting in a Stiles-free room one afternoon when Laura comes in with her purse on one arm. 

“You’re coming with me,” she tells him. “Pack up. It’ll be five o’clock by the time we get to Paloma’s and this is the kind of conversation we need to have over a margarita. Come on. Chop chop.” 

Derek knows when he’s looking at certain defeat, so he does what she says. Follows her there to avoid premature conversation that he’ll really want that drink for. 

By the time they’re seated at a table, Derek knows it’s fucking serious. And he’s hoping against hope that it’s not what he thinks it is. 

“I’ve been hearing things, Derek,” she says once they have margaritas. She takes a sip, licks the salt from the corner of her mouth. “I’ve been hearing things I shouldn’t be hearing, things I  _never_  thought I’d hear about  _you_ , in particular. Maybe Peter. I pretty much  _expected_  it from Peter because he thinks with his dick half the time, but  _you_? You’re smarter than this.” 

“Whatever you think has happened  _hasn’t_ ,” Derek tells her earnestly. 

“That’s even  _worse_. Because I’m  _hearing about it anyway_. And I would hope to God you  _haven’t_  because I would  _hope_  that if you were stupid enough to  _have a relationship with a student_ , you would at least be  _secretive_  about it. Jesus, Derek, the  _English_  department knows. They’re on the other side of campus!” 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Derek says, covering his face. This is  _bad_ , this is worse than he thought. 

“I just…Derek, I need you to look me in the eyes and tell me that you haven’t slept with him.”

He looks at her, stomach in a knot because he even has to do this. “ _I haven’t slept with him, Laura_.” 

“Are you  _dating_  him, then?”

“Jesus,  _no_! There’s nothing going on. I  _swear_.” He glares at her, pissed that she would think that he might, and sucks down half of his drink through the straw. And he gets brain freeze for it. Fucking great. 

Laura sighs. “You need to stop being seen with him. Don’t let him stay in your room. This is  _serious_ , Derek. This is your  _job_.”

“I  _know_  that, alright? That’s why I haven’t—“

“Wait,  _what_?” Laura says, looking like a bull who’s scented blood. “Run that one by me again?  _That_ ’s why you haven’t slept with him? Not the fact that he’s  _underage_? Or your  _student_?”

“He’s not. He’s nineteen, for one, and two, he was my student  _last_  year. He’s not anymore. Alright? Never in a million years with one of my students, alright?”

“But since he’s not, you’re, what?  _Thinking about it_?”

Derek stops himself from yelling, but he makes an exasperated noise. “ _Look_. I. Am. Not. Going. To. Sleep. With. Him. Alright? Is that in any way unclear? It won’t happen. And I’ll stay away from him, alright? I know what I have to do.”

“Do you? Because even though he’s not your student  _now_ , if anyone finds out, they’ll wonder when things started, okay?” She looks at him softly, sighs, takes his hand. “I’m trying to protect you, Der. This is not a good place to be. But nothing’s happened, so that’s good. There’s still time to make it go away. And I’ll help you. You’re not alone.”

“Yeah,” Derek says quietly. “Okay. Let’s just…order. I don’t know. I’m hungry. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

 

Of course, they’re maybe halfway through their meal when Laura looks up and waves to someone behind him. Derek frowns, turns, doesn’t see anyone he recognizes. 

“Who was that?” he asks, poking at his enchiladas with disinterest. 

“Didn’t see me, I guess,” she says, then answers, “Oh, the Sheriff—“ Derek snaps around, looking “—I see him on my run sometimes. Nice guy.” That’s when he realizes that he’s being really obvious, so he tones it down, tries to be casual as he takes in everyone in the restaurant. _Subtle_. “What is it?” Laura asks, and that’s when the front door opens and Stiles comes in. Derek ducks behind the partition of the booth quickly. Laura looks, then frowns at him. “What’s  _he_  doing here?”

“He’s Stilinski. The Sheriff’s  _son_ ,” Derek says angrily, voice hushed to a whisper. 

“Are you  _kidding_  me?” she asks. “Derek, that’s so much worse. The only way he could be worse jailbait is if he were sitting in a cell in a bright red bow and pigtails.”

Derek covers his face, elbows on the table. “ _I know_ ,” he hisses. "I didn't even  _do_ anything and I'm going to be arrested."

“Only I don’t think he’d arrest you. I think they’d just never find your body. He does competitive shooting, you know. He’s good. He told me.” 

“It’s going to be  _fine_ ,” Derek tells her. “Nothing happened. I’m  _not_  going to end up in a ditch somewhere.” He’s not sure which of the two of them he’s trying to convince. It doesn’t really matter, since it doesn't work on either of them. 

“He’s getting up,” Laura hisses, and Derek drops his hands, trying to look without looking like he’s looking. It’s the Sheriff she’s talking about, thank God. Only that’s really not actually better. Not really. But he doesn’t see them, heading to the bathroom. They’re not in his line of sight.

Derek lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “That was a close one.”

“I don’t know if I should be  _crying_  because this is a terrible situation, or laughing because  _what the fuck_.  _How_ , Derek? How did this whole thing happen? I just don’t get it.”

“No way,” Derek says. “I’m not talking about it unless I’m drunk and they’re ten miles away.” He remembers something and scowls at the table. “Only they live, like, three minutes away. Fuck. Even in  _my apartment_  I wouldn’t be able to talk about it.” 

“Wait, so there’s actually something to talk about?  _Derek_.” She seems not just disappointed, but  _sorry_.

He shakes his head. “Not here. Definitely not here. Or ever. Not ever.” 

In a couple sips, he finishes his margarita. 

It’s a school night and if he has another, he won’t be able to drive. But he really wants another. Jesus. He’s a  _mess_.

“Laura? Hey!” a male voice says, and Derek looks up. He does a very good job of not cringing when the Sheriff comes over to their table. 

“Hey, Sheriff! How’s it going?”

“Good, good. Just having dinner with my son, getting in a little man time.” Jesus, Derek’s starting to realize where Stiles gets his speech patterns from. “Is this some scary boyfriend I need to intimidate? I think I’ve got my badge on me.”

Derek forces a smile as Laura says, “Oh, God, no. This is my brother, Derek.” 

“Nice to meet you son,” the Sheriff says, holding out a hand that he shakes, and then the Sheriff narrows his eyes. “Wait…Hale?” Derek nods like he’s confirming that he assassinated the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. “My son had you last year, I think. Talked about you all the time. That…yeah, that makes sense now.” And now Derek’s Stiles sense is tingling and he  _knows_  that Stiles is either watching them or making his way over. 

“Hey, Dad, we got our food…” Stiles says somewhere behind him. With the booth’s partition, he can’t see that Derek’s here. Maybe he doesn’t know. “Oh, hi, Ms. Hale. How’s it going?”

“Good, Stiles, thank you,” she says, smiling wide as she kicks Derek under the table. So he peeks out, waves. 

“Hey. What’s up?” He sounds awkward. He sounds like he owns a big white van that says  _Free Puppies_  on the side. Fuck fuck fuck. He's going to end up in a ditch somewhere.

“Not much, dude. Food. And Dad would kill me if I ate before he got to the table, so…”

The Sheriff rolls his eyes. “You make me sound like an authoritarian. It’s good manners, that’s all. Go ahead.” He turns back to Laura and Derek. “Good to see you. Have a nice meal.” He offers a friendly wave, but when he’s safely gone, Derek lets out a breath. Sees a waitress and points at his empty margarita glass. Fuck it, he deserves one after that ordeal.

“That was really awkward, you know that?” Laura whispers.

“I know, okay? I’m sorry, I wasn’t prepared for the situation,” he tells her.

She shakes her head. “No, not just you. Why didn’t you say Stiles used to have a crush on you? If you knew, you should’ve done something about it. Set the right boundaries, you know?”

“I had no idea, alright?”

“ _Seriously_?” She stares at him for a long, long time. “If that’s how he usually acts around you, I’m concerned that you didn’t realize.”

“It’s not. We’re good. He’s usually a lot more comfortable with me. I think it was just that his dad was here and you were here. I don’t know. Usually, it’s a lot less awkward.”

She sighs. “Now  _that’s_  making me concerned. You really need to do something about it.”

“ _I know_ ,” he says and he’s spared from her when his second margarita arrives.  

* * *

The weird thing is that Derek doesn’t  _have_  to say anything to Stiles. Because Stiles stops hanging around him at all. Derek doesn’t know where to find him to tell him not to come around, and maybe that’s for the best. 

* * *

“Do you really think you’re going to win this?” Stiles asks Lydia in English. They’re in pairs, playing the Questions game because they just finished  _Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_. In the class competition they just had, Stiles and Lydia tied, but he’s determined to win in a one-on-one. It's not going well so far. 

“Do you think that distracting me is going to help you?” she asks with a little confident smile.

“What’s your strategy?”

“Why would I tell  _you_  that?” she asks, examining her nails.

“What could I possibly distract you from?”

“Don’t you think I might know a question you won’t be able to stop yourself from answering?”

That’s not a bluff, but he’ll call it anyway. “Are you sure you know me that well?”

“Why are you so afraid if I don’t?”

“What’s your question, then?”

“Why would I ask you outright if I can wait for you to get me there instead?” Her smirk says  _it’s more fun this way_. 

“Have I ever told you you’re a sadist?”

She laughs, bats her eyes at him. “Does that mean I’m still your type?”

He rolls his eyes, asks, “What other sadist is my type?”

“Who do we know who’s ever been called a sadist around March for organizing too many study sessions?”

“Is that your overall plan here?”

“When have I ever been that simple, sweetie?” Ooh, that  _sweetie_ , that burns. She’s being condescending because she thinks she’s going to win. Well, sucks for her. It's not going to happen. Stiles is a master of wordplay, a _master_.

“Why don’t we talk about something else?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Why don’t we gossip?” She won’t be able to resist that, since she knows everything about everyone.

“Who should we gossip about?”

“Who’s your favorite target?”

She smiles with too many teeth to be friendly. “Oh, so you actually _want_ to talk about Hale now?”

Well, that’s easy enough to deflect, so he asks, “Which Hale?”

“When have I made a point of talking about Laura or Peter?”

“What about Derek, then?” This is not going somewhere he likes.

“What do you know about his personal life?”

“How would I know more than you?”

She looks a little annoyed, asks, “Why don’t you  _answer_   _the question_  instead of deflecting?”

“What, do you want me to talk about his lack of long-term, uh,  _romantic partner_?”

“Why aren’t _you_ his long-term romantic partner?” The way she says it is like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it’s practically  _inconceivable_  that he’s not, and he sputters. “Hesitation. That’s one-luv,” she says with a triumphant smile. “Shall we go another round?”

She’s the worst, she is. And she’s so, so wrong.

* * *

Derek didn’t realize until Stiles stopped coming around how few people he actually talks to on a regular basis. It’s just that Stiles takes up so much space without trying. Space Derek didn’t realize he even  _had_. There were parts of him that were empty and he didn’t know that until after they’d been filled. 

The thing he’s realizing, now that there’s no Stiles, no danger, is that they might have been good together, in another life.  If Stiles were ten years older, they could’ve been an actual couple, and they would  _good_. Laura would like him. Peter would like him a little bit too much. His parents wouldn’t blink because six years isn’t an age difference.  _Sixteen_ , though? Not unless he were  _rich_ , and then his parents would probably judge him anyway. But not if Stiles were ten years older.

There’s no use thinking about it. Thinking doesn’t make it so. 

Thank God the school year is ending soon because he needs a  _vacation_. Being here is driving him crazy. He needs to get out, maybe drive up north, go see some national parks or something. 

* * *

They’re at Isaac’s, smoking a bowl, when Stiles learns something really weird. 

“You know, Derek Hale lives in the complex right over there,” Isaac says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “I saw him getting his mail on the way to school the other morning.” Scott passes Stiles the piece and lighter, and it takes him a second to realize what’s going on. The knowledge does weird things in his head, so he passes to Isaac instead of taking another hit. 

“You gonna stalk him?” Scott asks, grinning. 

“ _No_ ,” Stiles tells him, shooting a scowl. “I don’t care where he lives.” For a second, he gets this image of himself knocking on doors until Derek answers, but he's not Hugh Grant and his life isn’t fucking _Love Actually_. 

He makes a private note not to get drunk here anytime soon because with a little liquid courage, he might actually try.

“You’re a bad liar, dude,” Scott says. “You wanna bang him. I can tell.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You don’t even  _like_  him.”

“Well, I thought he was only setting me up with Allison to see me fail. I’ve made my peace with him now. We’re chill. Me and Derek are like  _brothers_.”

“Oh really?”

Scott shrugs. “Nahhh, bro, I haven’t seen him in weeks. We’re not eating lunch with him anymore. Why is that?”

“It got weird,” Stiles says with a sigh. “Peter said something I didn’t like. I don’t want Derek to get in trouble or anything. Not when nothing’s even happening.”

“You  _want_  something to happen,” Isaac says. “I could figure out where he lives for you. You could get laid.”

“It’s not like that,” Stiles tells him.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re  _serious_  about him, we know.” 

Stiles frowns because that’s  _not_  what he was thinking, not at all. He was thinking about how it wouldn’t be some cheap sex thing where they sneak around and fuck sometimes, always looking over their shoulders. If he’s going to do something that stupid, he wants to at least do it right, the way they can’t. He’s not going to waste his effort for cheap thrills.

Well, that’s a  _little_  serious. Because the alternative to secret sex is secret dating. Being a secret  _long-term romantic partner_ , like Lydia said. 

“I’ve gotta go home, dudes. I’m out,” Stiles says. He’s got the feeling there’s a lot more introspection coming his way, and he’d prefer to do it alone. 

* * *

Derek lets Laura in and, guaging her expression, goes for a bottle of wine and a couple glasses.

"I don't want to hear it," he says as he uncorks the bottle.

"Well, that's fine because I'm going to do some listening. And you're going to tell me how you got yourself wrapped up with one of your students." He pours, sighing, and she takes a glass. When he takes his and heads to the living room, she stops him. "You're going to want the bottle, I think, Der."

"I hate you," he tells her honestly.

"Think of it this way: at a hearing, I could be on you side."

"There's not going to be a  _hearing_ ," he says, sitting down heavily. 

She nods, taking a sip. "Very true. Because once the Sheriff finds out, we're going to hear that you went on a permanent vacation somewhere outside the country, that you fleed before anyone could talk to you. And no one will ever find the body."

"Are you giving me the over-protective Dad speech by proxy?"

"Someone has to. And since I don't think you'll survive  _him_ doing it, I thought I'd fill in. Besides. He's  _hot_." 

" _Jesus_ , Laura. How old is he?"

She shrugs. "Not as much older than me as you're older than his teenage son."

"That's a low blow," Derek tells her. "And I'm serious. It's not like that. He's just that kind of kid, you know? The kind who needs an impartial adult to talk things through with. I happened to be in the way."

"So it's a mentor-mentee thing?"

He winces. "Not  _really_. It's like...we're not _friends_ , exactly—"

"No, you're not, because you're his _teacher_." He sighs, finishes off his glass and pours himself another. Something tells him he's going to need it.

"Look, you want to know how it is, let me tell you: if I were never his teacher, if we met some other way, we would've been friends. Maybe not at first. But he'd be there and eventually I'd stop pretending he wasn't okay, and we'd be friends. It was fine when he  _was_ my student because it was easy to keep him at a distance, but now...I keep thinking about how we  _could_ be friends, and I let him get too close."

"Just  _friends_ , Derek?"

He huffs, annoyed. "Look, what do you want me to say? Yeah, it's there. That's just how it is. Sometimes, you meet people and there's  _something_ there, something that could be something bigger if you gave it a shot, but I'm _not_ giving it a shot. It's not anything, and it's not  _going_ to be anything. Alright?"

"Fine," she says. "Fine, I believe you." She lets her head loll back against the back of the couch, looking at him. "I believe that the brother I know wouldn't risk his future for a bit of tail. I'm not...I don't like it, and I think it's a very bad situation that I don't want you to be a part of, but you're an adult and I trust that you wouldn't throw everything away unless it was for something meaningful. That's all I'm going to say on the matter." She tops off her glass and drains it.

* * *

Graduation sneaks up on everyone. One minute, Stiles is getting out of his last AP test, the next, he’s trying on his cap and gown. There’s endless rehearsals, awards ceremonies, all sorts of boring, useless shit. He  _hates_  it, honestly, but all of it means he’s  _almost_  done. 

That last day, they have a little graduation lunch on campus. Everyone’s buzzing in their semi-formal wear, their feet itching to just walk the stage already, and parents are milling about, telling each other how proud they are of their upstanding kids. Stiles’ dad isn’t here, had to work a day shift to make the ceremony tonight, so he’s sort of bouncing between his friends. He hangs with Scott for a while, but he feels weird, tired and isolated, so he sneaks inside to air conditioning and empty halls. It’s the last day of finals for the rest of the school, but they’re all off for a long lunch. 

Stiles wanders, messing with his stiff shirt cuffs, thinking about how this is the last time he’s going to walk down these halls, how he’s never going to have to be here again, when he finds himself at Derek’s door. His feet must’ve been on autopilot. 

It’s unlocked, so he slips in, glad to find the room empty so he can say his goodbyes to it alone, maybe write a little message on a post-it for Derek. Something personal but not too intense. Just a thank you. For being there. So he sits at Derek’s desk and stares at a post-it for a long, long time before he realizes that basically everything he wants to say is too much to leave sitting around. Instead of writing anything, he just folds the paper into an airplane, and then another, another. 

He finishes the post-it pad and just stares at all of the little airplanes crowding Derek’s desk. Shit. That’s a lot. It’s probably getting late. They’ll have another final soon. He needs to go. 

For a second, he thinks about scrawling a note somewhere, but he doesn’t need to. Derek will get it just fine. 

So he leaves. Quickly and quietly. Down the empty halls to the bathroom, where he washes his face and checks his phone. There’s about three  **where r u?** ’s from Scott and a  **were heading out**. That’s fine. He took his Jeep, so it’s fine. He might go drive for a while, until he needs to go home. His dad already made him dress nice enough, so he really just needs to grab his cap and gown and head out. That gives him a few hours to burn.

Plan in mind, he leaves the bathroom, heading towards the back exit, the parking lot where he parked. 

“I see you left me an air force,” he hears echoing down the hallway behind him. For a second, Stiles freezes, but he turns because he’s stupid and weak. 

“You know. For company.” 

There’s a mile of empty linoleum between them, and it makes Stiles feel very small. 

“Were you going to say goodbye?” Derek asks.

Stiles shrugs. “ _They_  were my goodbye.”

“Well,” Derek says because there’s not much to say to that. Then, “I never thought I’d see you in sleeves that weren’t plaid.” 

“You can see me in acrylic silk sleeves tonight.”

Derek winces. “I can’t. Couldn’t get a ticket. Only the senior year teachers get them.” 

“That’s stupid,” Stiles says, suddenly aware that they’re talking pretty loud because they’re so far apart and that this is not the way to have a conversation, especially not  _this_  conversation. So he walks forward, thinking the word  _goodbye_  very hard so he doesn’t mess it up and say something else, something bad. 

It’s a waste anyway because he’s walking with the intent to stop a few tiles away, but his body didn’t get that memo because he doesn’t stop, not until they’re toe-to-toe and Stiles' arms come up. It’s the most awkward hug in the world for a second there because Stiles hadn’t done it on purpose and Derek’s just  _standing_  there, like it’s the worst thing that ever happened to him. But then Derek hugs him back and no, he hasn’t been hugged like this in a long time, like if the other person lets go, he’ll disappear. He buries his face in Derek’s neck, almost too tall for it, and he just holds on.

The sound of other students down the hall makes them jump apart. Feeling stupid, Stiles wipes his eyes because they’re fucking wet and he’s an idiot for getting like this, but he’s  _not going to see Derek again_. 

“Jesus, give me a minute, dude. Sorry,” he says, his voice too thing because there’s a knot in his throat. His cuffs are wet when he drops his arms to his sides. 

Derek doesn’t say anything, he just stands there like he’s totally given up. Which, why shouldn’t he? It’s all  _over_. He’s as good as gone. 

“I’m going to miss you, asshole,” Stiles tells him.

“ _Language_ ,” Derek corrects, his voice sounding a little off, and maybe Stiles isn’t the only one who feels like shit. But he laughs, and smiles the kind of smile that hurts. 

“I am, though. I…goodbye. That’s what you say.  _Goodbye_.” Stiles gives him a nod, and when he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds too many, he heads down the hall. And yeah, he’s fucking crying okay, because it’s generally an emotional time in his life. He’s crying and he’s not going to wipe his face until he knows Derek can’t see.

He says that, but before he even gets to corner, someone else turns it —  _Ms. Hale_  — so he wipes his face quickly, hoping she doesn’t see, but he knows his eyes are red and there’s no way she misses it. Jesus Christ.

“What a way to go out, huh?” he says to himself, and laughs. 

* * *

Derek sees Laura coming at him, even though she’s kind of blurry, so he ducks into his room. Takes a few deep breaths. He gets in three before she opens the door. For a moment, she just takes him in. 

“You’re a fucking mess, you know that?” He tries to shrug, but it comes out weird. “I’m not condoning anything, but come here,” she says, opening her arms. He falls into her, breathes in the familiar scent of her perfume, of just  _Laura_ , and holds her tight. She rubs his back, shushes him, like he’s a child again. That knocks some sense of dignity into him, and he pulls away.

“I’m fine,” he tells her. “Just had a cramp. In my le— shoulder. In my shoulder. I’m fine.” She looks at him, one eyebrow raised. “I’m fine, okay?”

“You’re saying that an awful lot, you know.”

“Well, that’s because it’s true. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She gives him a look. “You know why. So just know that this is the only time I’m going to comfort you about it. I advise you to take advantage of that.”

“I’m  _fine_ ,” he tells her, and he’ll keep repeating it until it’s true. 

* * *

The stupid thing is that Stiles is stupid. And hopeful. And stupid. He has this really dumb idea that Derek’s going to be at graduation. Before he goes up, he turns around in his seat, combing the faces for the one he’s looking for. And when he crosses, he looks some more. Almost trips, actually, which should be a sign to  _stop_ , but he ignores it. And after, when they throw their caps in the air and everyone starts looking for their parents, he’s looking for someone else. Someone he doesn’t find. 

His dad finds  _him_ , though. Wraps him in this ridiculous bear hug that should be embarrassing, but everyone else is in the same boat, so it’s okay. It’s terrible because his dad is crying, and that makes Stiles cry, too, and that’s two too many crying hugs today.

“I’m so proud of you,” his dad tells him, holding him tight.

“Thanks, Dad,” he chokes. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, kiddo.”

They stand there for what feels like forever, even though it’s not like they’re never going to see each other again. When Stiles pulls free, he sees Scott, and that’s just a mess. It’s like they don’t have the whole summer together because they’re repeating life promises and crying manfully and manfully ignoring that they’re both crying and it’s sloppy and terrible. 

They find everyone else, and yeah, Stiles tells Lydia that he’s always loved her. 

“I know,” she says matter-of-factly, and gives him a sudden, hard hug. “I love you, too. Especially since you’re not trying to feel my boobs right now.” He laughs and she laughs, and he’s  _not_  going to cry.

But he hugs everyone he knows. Some of them twice. He group hugs Erica and Boyd and tells them that he’s in love with their love. They promise that even though Isaac is Boyd’s best man, he can be the man of honor. He might tear up a little, but he hugs them tight until the auditorium starts clearing out.

He finds his dad, and they make their way to the parking lot with his dad’s arm across his shoulders. They came from two places, so they’re in separate cars, and when they get to his dad’s cruiser, Stiles hugs him. 

“I think I’m gonna be at Scott’s tonight, okay? You know how hard it is to cut the cord and all,” he says, smiling a little. “But I’ll be home for breakfast for sure.” 

He doesn’t go to Scott’s, though. Instead, he calls a number he’s never called. It rings a few times, and Stiles is  _convinced_  that it’s going to go to voicemail, that he’s fucking stupider than he realized. He’s made another mistake, he thinks, but then the other end picks up.

“ _What do you want?_ ” Derek asks. His voice sounds a little weird, probably because it’s on the phone.

“What are you doing right now?”

There’s a metallic crackle as he snorts. “ _Well, not_ drinking _, that’s for sure. Definitely not doing that_.” Stiles, taken aback, looks at his phone like it’s holding an answer, then puts it back to his ear.

“Derek, are you  _drunk_?”

“ _Not yet, I’m not. You know, you’re not supposed to call me. Not supposed to even have my number. But go figure._ ”

“Are you at home?” Stiles asks.

“ _Yep_.” Derek pops the  _p_ , like it’s amusing. 

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Okay, well, don’t leave because I’m coming over.” And the he realizes the major flaw to this plan. “Where do you live, exactly? What’s your apartment number?”

“ _I’m not supposed to tell you. But I’ve done a lot of stuff I wasn’t supposed to do, haven’t I?_ ” Derek tells him, and that’s almost a miracle.

“Okay, well, I’m on my way. And don’t get too drunk. If you’re passed out when I get there, I’m gonna be pissed. Got it?” 

“ _Putting the bottle down now. Heavens knows why_.” 

“See ya, loser,” Stiles says, grinning a little. 

He drives around for a while, takes his time getting there. Then drives around the block a few times. There’s a chance that giving him time to sober up a little will really just be giving him enough time to drink more, but Stiles is gonna take it. And he stops, pulls his gown over his head, runs his hands through his hair so it looks normal. Makes sure he doesn’t have, like, a huge zit or anything. And he’s good.

It takes a few minutes to actually find the right apartment, but he does, and then he stands on that doorstep for a stupid amount of time because he’s afraid to knock.

But he mans up and does it. And waits. 

Derek doesn’t open the door all the way. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Probably not, no,” Stiles says, shrugging. “But here I am.”

Derek lets him in after a moment. He’s wearing a soft-looking t-shirt and flannel pajama pants. In the living room, there’s a book, a cell phone, and a bottle of wine on the coffee table. No drinking glasses. To one side, there’s a dark hallway, probably the bed and bath, and at the other end, the living room opens into the kitchen. 

The room smells like burning coffee, and Derek grabs a half-full mug off the kitchen counter. 

“You want some?” he asks before taking a sip. 

Stiles shakes his head, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

“Why are you here?”

“I….” This is the part Stiles doesn’t really know how to do. There’s too many ways to say what he means, and he’d hoped that when he’d ended up here, it would all come out right. But nothing’s coming out, and when it does, it's the wrong thing to say. "You didn't say goodbye," he says. 

“You should go.”

Stiles frowns, staring at him even though Derek’s not really meeting his gaze. “Do you  _want_  me to go?”

“That has nothing to do with anything.” 

“It has everything to do with  _everything_ , and you  _know_  that.” 

Derek snorts. “Okay, you’re here for what? Sex? You think that now that you’ve graduated, we can  _fuck_?” It’s the first time Stiles has ever heard him say that word, and he gets a little shiver because he sounds  _pissed_. But he’s got this look, like if that were what Stiles were here for, he might go along with it. Would  _probably_  go along with it. 

“I like to think you know me better than that,” Stiles says mildly, raising his eyebrows. 

“Well, I  _don’t_ , and you don’t know me, so either tell me what you want or get out.”

Stiles is maybe a little pissed, enough that he lets it show. “You know, I don’t deserve this. I didn’t do  _anything_  to make you think that. I was never one of those kids who hangs off your every word because they want your dick. All I wanted was to get to know you. But every single time I tried to get to know you better on a  _real_  level, you shut me down. I  _tried_ , okay?”

“You shouldn’t have,” Derek tells him. “You’re smart enough to know that this is stupid.”

“You’re right. It  _is_. I know that. And I don’t really care, to be honest. Because just because it’s stupid doesn’t mean it’s a mistake. And I think you know that as well as I do.” Derek stares at him without an expression, so incredibly blank it makes his skin crawl a little. “Look, I’m fucking  _terrified_  because I’m nineteen years old and I go to college in three months and I just  _know_  that if I never try to be with you, I’ll regret it. So this is me, trying, because I  _like_  you and I want to be with you and I think we could be really good together. And I want you to think about it.”

“What, you think I  _haven’t_?” Derek sets his empty mug down and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve thought about it, alright? And it’s just a bad idea. No one could know. They would come to the wrong conclusions.” 

“Well, how long until they wouldn’t? What, a year? Two?”

Derek shrugs. “I don’t know. Probably four or five, at least. Maybe more.”

“We won’t have to sneak around for _that_ long. I won’t be here for most of the year anyway. A week here, a month there, and we could skype in the meantime. And I’m at Stanford. It’s only a couple hours away, so you could visit me and there, we wouldn’t have to hide anything, and who knows, after I graduate? We could make it work for as long as we have to.”

“Stiles, that’s…you’re talking about at least four years in the future. That’s— People don’t do that. We’re not even in a  _relationship_.”

“Well, we’ve been basically courting for, like, a year and a half, so….And anyway, if it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. I’m just saying, it’s  _possible_  to make it work. If we try.” 

Derek stares at him for a long time, face shifting like he’s trying to figure it all out, like he’s weighing the pros and cons. It’s something he needs to do, yeah, but there’s adrenaline running through Stiles’ body and he’s itching for an answer. 

“Okay,” he says at long last. “I’d like to try.” 

Stiles takes a step forward, then another, smaller. They’re nose-to-nose and Stiles can see all the colors of Derek’s eyes this close, and they’re beautiful. But his brows furrow, even as Stiles bumps their noses together.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, frowning a little.

“I— I want to touch you, but I can’t.”

Stiles shakes his head, noses brushing. “You can. If you want to. I’d like you to.” 

Shutting his eyes, Derek’s hands touch his sides, just under his ribs, and he pulls Stiles’s body in, bending him like a bow. It’s hardly a movement at all to turn his head and slot their mouths together. Derek doesn’t kiss him back at all, at first, but when he does, he cups Stiles’ face and steals into his mouth with the hot press of his tongue.

Stiles has very little experience kissing, even less while sober, but he picks it up pretty quick because he cares, this time. He’s not perfect. Someday, he’s going to learn how to kiss Derek perfectly, exactly the way he wants to be kissed, but tonight, he’s content to get familiar. He shifts against Derek’s body, getting a better angle, a closer feel of him, and Derek makes this  _noise_. His hands come down and tug Stiles’ shirt out of his pants so he can slip under and slide over Stiles’ hips, around to slip down beneath his slacks over his ass. 

It’s a fucking tease, it is, and Stiles makes a noise in the back of his throat. He breaks the kiss, gives Derek a look, shaking his head.

“You’re a menace, Derek Hale. You know that?” Stiles rubs his face against Derek’s cheek, mesmerized by the feel of stubble over his skin. It gets him hot, the way it scrapes against his mouth, and he follows it down under his jaw, to Derek’s neck, and he sucks hard. 

“ _Jesus Christ_ , you’re going to kill me,” Derek says, and Stiles can feel him talk through the column of his throat. 

“If you die, I’ll have to explain why,” Stiles tells him, pulling back just far enough to meet his eyes. “People aren’t going to like that, you know.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “ _Not_  funny.”

“Nope. But it  _is_ the tiniest bit sexy. Just saying.” 

“You’re an arrest record waiting to happen,” Derek tells him with certainty. 

Stiles smirks. “But the conjugal visits will  _totally_  be worth it.” One of Derek’s hands comes up to cover his face, and he hides behind it for a moment.

“I’ve made a huge mistake, haven’t I?” 

“Okay, Gob,  _sure_.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “Now, is that a dead dove in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” Derek snorts, and it turns into a laugh. 

“I don’t know why I like you.”

“Liar. You know exactly why, and I promise you that only about five percent of it is that my booty is fly.”

Derek kisses the corner of his mouth, nuzzles his nose against his cheek, and rests his forehead against Stiles’. “ _Maybe more like seven percent_ ,” he whispers, and Stiles can feel it when he grins. 

“Well, you’re not going to see any of that seven percent in the kitchen. Well, not tonight. We can save the kitchen for later. Maybe a couple laters. I was told that people in relationships sometimes have sex as many as three times a day, but personally, I’d like to aim higher.” 

“You’re going to wear me out,” Derek says, but he lets Stiles pull him away from the counter. 

“Only if you’ll let me, old man.”

Derek scowls. “I’m not old yet, you know.”

“Yep. But I’ll be sure. let you know when you get there,” Stiles says, tugging him by a belt loop. 

“Is that a promise?”

“You know it.”

* * *

I swear, it had to end here.

I am not a sex short-changer. I will write a pwp to make up for it. I swear

(it will probably be mildly inspired by the last episode fyi)

ANYWAY, I hope y'all liked this! It was way too fun to write

~~especially since I hated most of my high school and some of this borrows from real life~~

  
~~  
~~Well, if you wanna find me on tumblr, I'm[here](http://majestic-beard.tumblr.com/) and I don't bite :)

 


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